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J.C.Bailey 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


1 


ENGLISH     ELEGIES 


THE  BODLEY  HEAD 
ANTHOLOGIES    -»> 

English  Epithalamies 

By  Robert  Case 

Musa  Piscatrix 

By  John  Buchan 

Florilegium  Latinum  (Pre- Vic- 
torian Poets) 

By  Rev.  i".  St.  John  Thacker.w 
and  Rev.  E.  D.  Stone 

English  Elegies 

By  J.  C.  Bailey 

IN  PREPARATION 

Nineteenth-Century  Pastorals 

By  Charles  Hill  Dick 

Florilegium  Latinum  (Victorian 
Poets) 

By  Rev.  F.  St.  John  Thackeray 
and  Rev.  E.  D.  Stone 


'AntboJo 


ENGLISH 
ELEGIES 


Edited  by 


J.^C.    Bailey 


?R/Jf5 


/ '     -^ 


I   DEDICATE  THIS  COLLECTION   OF 

ENGLISH    ELEGIES 

TO   MY   FRIEND 

FREDERIC  GEORGE  KENYON 

TO    WHOSE    SUGGESTION    IT    OWES 
ITS  ORIGIN 


CONTENTS 


INTRODUCTION 

PAGE 

xiii 

Spenser 

Daphnaida 

I 

Donne    . 

.     Funeral  Elegy 

18 

JONSON     . 

Eupheme 

21 

Dryden  . 

.     Ode  on  the  Death  of  Mrs  Anne  Killigrew        28 

Pope 

.     Elegy  on  an  Unfortunate  Lady        .         .         34 

JONSON     . 

.     Elegy  on  Lady  Winchester 

37 

Milton  . 

.     Epitaph  on  Lady  Winchester 

40 

Milton  . 

On  Shakspeare 

42 

JONSON     . 

.     To  the  Memory  of  Shakspeare        .         .         43 

Cleveland 

.     On  Jonson     . 

45 

Dryden  . 

.     On  Oldham   . 

.         .         46 

Basse 

.     On  Shakspeare 

47 

Shakspeare 

Sonnet  71. 

.         .         48 

Raleigh 

.     "  Even  such  is  time  " 

.         .         48 

Dunbar 

.     Lament  for  the  Makaris 

49 

Drummond 

.     To  Sir  William  Alexander 

52 

Herrick 

.     To  Julia  at  his  Death 

53 

Bridges  . 

Elegy  on  a  Lady    . 

53 

Herrick 

.     To  Bianca 

.        .        56 

b 

ix 

CONTENTS 


Landor  . 

.     "  Fate  !  I  have  asked  "  . 

Landor  . 

.     "  Death  stands  above  me "" 

Landor  . 

On  Southey's  Death 

Landor  . 

.     To  the  Sister  of  Elia 

Swinburne 

.     In  Memory  of  Walter  Savage 

Collins  . 

.     On  the  Death  of  Thomson 

Wordsworth 

.     Remembrance  of  Collins 

Wordsworth 

At  the  Grave  of  Burns    . 

Wordsworth 

At  the  Grave  of  Burns    . 

Burns     . 

.     On  a  Wounded  Hare 

Burns     . 

A  Bard's  Epitaph  . 

Coleridge 

Monody  on  Chatterton  . 

Mrs  Browning      .     Cowper's  Grave      . 

Cowley  . 

.     On  the  Death  of  Crashaw 

Constable 

.     To  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  Soul    . 

Roydon  . 

.     An  Elegy  for  his  Astrophel     . 

Surrey  . 

Epitaph  on  Clere   . 

Raleigh 

.     Epitaph  on  Sir  Philip  Sidney  . 

Marvell 

.     Upon  the  Death  of  His  Lat 

the  Lord  Protector 

Spenser . 

.     Astrophel       .         .         .         . 

Spenser . 

.     The  Doleful  Lay  of  Clorinda  . 

Browne  . 

.     The  Fourth  Eclogue  of  the  " 

Pipe"         .         .         .         . 

Milton  . 

.     Lycidas          .         .         .         . 

Surrey  . 

.     "  So  cruel  prison  how  could  be 

Landor 


e  Highness 


Shepherd' 


CONTENTS 


XI 


Gray 

Arnold  . 
Cowley  . 

TiCKELL 

Habington 
Johnson 
Gray 
Herrick 
Browne  . 
Landor . 
Arnold . 
Wordsworth 
Wordsworth 


Wordsworth 
Bridges 
Sir  John  Beaumon 
Lefroy  . 
Landor  . 
Milton  . 
Cowper  . 
Vaughan 

Bishop  King 
Browne  . 


PAGE 

On  the  Death  of  Richard  West       .         .        123 

Thyrsis  ......        123 

On  the  Death  of  William  Hervey  .         .        130 

Lines  on  Addison  .         .         .         -135 

On  George  Talbot  .         .         .  .138 

On  the  Death  of  Robert  Lcvet        .         .        140 

Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyard  .        141 

"  Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see  "  .        145 

InObitumM.S 146 

"  Ah  what  avails  the  sceptred  race  "        .        146 

Requiescat      ......       147 

"  She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways"       148 

"  Three    years    she    grew    in    sun    and 

shower"      ...  .         .        148 

"  A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal"      .  .        150 

"  I  never  shall  love  the  snow  again  "  .        150 

On  Gervase  Beaumont    .         .         .  .        151 

Quern  Di  diligunt    .         .         .         .  .152 

On  the  approach  of  a  Sister's  Death  .        153 

On  his  Deceased  Wife    ....       153 

On  his  Mother's  Picture           .         .  .154 

"They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of 

light" 157 

The  Exequy  .         .         .         .         .         •       159 

"  Is  Death  so  great  a  gamester,  that  he 

throws"     ......        163 


Xll 


CONTENTS 


Donne    . 

.     First  Elegy  on  Mistress  Boulstred   . 

PAGE 

165 

Donne    .         .         .     Second  Elegy  on  Mistress  Boulstred 
^TSSlv     )  Elegy  ov„  a  Tomb         •         ■         ■         ■ 
Sir  John  Beaumont   To  the  Memory  of  Lady  Penelope  Clifton 

168 
169 
170 

Pope 

.     On  Robert  and  Mary  Digby  . 

173 

Wolfe    . 

.     The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore 

174 

Cowper  . 

.     On  the  Loss  of  the  Royal  George    . 

175 

Tennyson 

.     Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Welling 
ton 

177 

Scott     . 

.     On  the  Deaths  of  Nelson,  Pitt,  and  Fox 

185 

Arnold  . 

Memorial  Verses     .... 

190 

Watson 

Lachrymae  Musarum 

193 

Watts-Ddnton 

.     The  Last  Walk  from  Boar's  Hill     . 

196 

Le  Gallienne 

.     Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

198 

Mrs  Meynell 

.     To  the  Beloved  Dead     . 

202 

Arnold  . 

.     Geist's  Grave 

203 

Bridges  . 

.     On  a  Dead  Child   . 

206 

Watts-Dunton 

In  a  Graveyard 

207 

Swinburne    . 

.     Light :  an  Epicede 

208 

Swinburne     . 

.     Ave  atque  Vale 

.       209 

Shelley 

.     Adonais 

217 

Swinburne    . 

.     In  Time  of  Mourning 

•       23s 

Tennyson 

"Break,  break,  break" 

236 

INTRODUCTION 

It  is  not  easy  to  say  quite  exactly  what  an  elegy  is. 
The  word,  like  all  such  words,  like  epic,  lyric,  dramatic, 
like  poetry  itself,  comes  to  us  from  the  Greeks.  Its 
traditional  derivation  connects  it  with  the  natural  utter- 
ance of  grief,  and  whatever  its  origin  may  have  been, 
the  proper  meaning  of  the  word  e'Aeyos  was  certainly  a 
lament.  The  ki7id?-ed  word,  eXeyecov,  on  the  other  hand, 
had  no  reference  to  subject,  and  merely  meant  a  poeyn  in 
a  particular  metre,  which  had  been  frequently  used  for 
elegies.  And  even  eXeyos  itself  is  occasionally  icsed  in 
this  metrical  sense,  irrespective  of  subject.  The  concep- 
tion of  an  elegy  was,  in  fact,  left  sometvhat  undefined 
by  the  Greeks :  and  so  it  still  remains.  The  task  of 
distinguishing  betwee?i  the  different  kinds  of  poetry  is, 
indeed,  only  less  difficult  than  that  of  finding  a  definition 
of  the  nature  of  poetry  itself  We  all  have  some  sort  of 
vague  idea  of  what  we  mean  hy  an  elegy,  as  of  what  we 
understand  by  the  word  poetry,  but  when  we  set  ourselves 
to  convert  the  vague  idea  into  a  clear  and  definite  one  we 
are  likely  to  find  that  we  have  faced  a  difficult  task. 
And  I  do  not  know  of  much  help  to  be  obtained  in  this 
case  from  the  recognised  critical  authorities.  Coleridge 
has,  indeed,  attemj)ted  a  definition.  "Elegy,"  he  says, 
"  is  the  form  of  poetry  natural  to  the  reflective  mind.     It 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

maij  treat  of  any  subject,  but  it  must  treat  of  no  subject 
for  itself,  but  always  and  exclusively  with  reference  to 
the  poet  himself"  But,  though  this  is  certainly  stamped 
with  the  mark  of  Coleridge's  subtle  critical  insight,  I  do 
not  think  it  can  be  accepted  as  a  quite  satisfactory  or 
final  defnition.  The  true  elegy  is  unquestionably  the 
product  of  the  reflective  mood,  it  is  essentially  "  sicklied 
o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thougJd,"  and  if  we  divide 
the  productions  of  the  poetic  activity  into  the  two  great 
classes  of  lyric  and  dramatic,  or,  if  you  will,  subjective 
and  objective  work,  there  can  be  no  doubt  tvhatever 
that  elegy  belongs  to  the  subjective  or  lyrical  faculty, 
and  stands  in  marked  contrast  to  the  drama  in  particular, 
and  to  all  poetry  in  which  the  poet's  aiin  and  hope  is 
to  be  as  little  as  possible  himself,  as  much  as  possible 
the  man  or  thing  of  which  he  writes.  It  is,  we  all  feel 
it,  the  cry  of  the  broken  heart,  the  musing  of  the  solitary 
wanderer,  the  utterance  now  of  quiet  7nelancholy,  now 
of  passionate  grief  bid  always  and  everywhere  of  the 
poet's  own  feelings.  It  conies  from  the  heart  a7id  should 
go  to  the  heart. 

So  far  what  Coleridge  says  is  no  doubt  as  true  as 
it  is  suggestive.  But  his  words  seem  to  go  a  good  deal 
further.  Is  it  really  the  case  that  all  poems  which  grow 
out  of  reflection,  and  more  particularly,  self -reflection, 
are  necessarily  elegiac  ?  Are  we  always  unhappy  when 
thinking,  arid  especially  when  thinking  of  ourselves  ?  A 
thousand  songs  of  joy  are  the  sufficient  proof  of  the 
contrary.  Or,  if  Coleridge  did  not  mean  this,  but  meant 
to  include  all  poe7ns  born  of  our  thoughts  about  ourselves 
under  the  class  of  elegies,  he  is,  it   will   be  admitted^ 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

still  wider  of  the  mark.  There  is  no  vainer  occupa- 
tion than  that  of  trying  to  force  arbitrary  meatiings 
iipon  words  of  old-established  7cse.  No  cunning  of  defni- 
tion,  no  subtlety  of  language,  no  freaks  of  nomeiwlature, 
suck  as  that  in  which  Drayton  itidulges  when  he  calls 
his  epistles  to  Sa^idys  and  Reynolds  "  Elegies,"  tvill  ever 
make  the  elegy  anything  but  what  Johnsons  dictionary 
calls  it,  "a  mournful  song."  That,  at  least,  an  elegy 
most  undoubtedly  is.  Mournful,  in  one  way  or  another, 
it  must  be,  though  those  ways  may  lie  as  far  apart  as 
Wordsworth's  quiet  resignation  and  Shelley's  passionate 
despair.  Love,  Grief,  and  Death  are  its  three  Jiotes : 
sometimes  only  one  of  them  is  struck;  hit,  when  it  is 
at  its  richest  and  sweetest,  it  is  foimded  on  a  chord 
composed  of  all  three.  We  are  sure  of  our  gromid 
so  far,  and  the  only  question  is  whether  we  can  get  a 
more  precise  definition. 

I  do  not  know  that  we  shall  find  any  regular  definition 
better  than  this  of  Coleridge.  I  have  met  with  two  which 
aim,  even  more  than  his,  at  formal  and  philosophical 
exactness,  one  of  which  regards  elegy  as  "  that  fortn 
of  poetry  in  which  anything  is  described  as  at  once 
desirable  and  not  present,"  while  the  other  makes  the 
motive  of  elegy  "  an  ideal  either  lost  or  not  yet  attained, 
or  simply  iynagined"  Both  of  these  are  useful  and 
suggestive,  but  they  have  each,  especially  the  first, 
a  tendency  to  limit  elegy  to  a  greater  extent  than 
Coleridge  has  done,  or  than  is  done  in  the  common 
acceptation  of  the  word.  This  is  the  ordinary  penalty 
of  atte?npts  at  too  great  logical  exactness,  and  we  shall 
not  perhaps  do  amiss  in  turning  from  them  to  the  less 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

careful  remarks  of  Shenstone,  who,  tvithout  being  a  very 
profound  person,  discusses  the  subject  sensibly  enough 
in  the  preface  to  his  own  Elegies.  "Elegy,"  he  says, 
"in  its  true  and  genuine  acceptation  iiicludes  a  tender 
and  querulous  idea,  and  so  long  as  this  is  sustained  it 
admits  of  a  variety  of  subjects ";  or,  as  he  afterwards 
explains,  "any  kind  of  subject  treated  so  as  to  diffuse 
apleasitig  melancholy."  And  he  has  more  in  the  same 
strain.  His  language  is  the  language  of  the  eighteenth 
century  and  not  what  we  should  use  to-day,  hit  he  gives 
the  plain  common-sense  account  of  the  matter,  and  tells 
us  as  well  as  anyojie  what  an  elegy  is,  as  distinct  from 
how  it  comes  to  be  what  it  is.  With  the  help  of  this 
and  the  other  definitions  we  may  make  out  for  ourselves 
a  fairly  good  working  idea  of  what  the  essence  and 
spirit  of  elegiac  poetry  is,  though  by  ?io  meaiis  such  an 
exact  definition  as  would  enable  us  to  say,  at  a  glance, 
whether  a  poem  is,  or  is  not,  an  elegy. 

The  subjects  elegies  may  deal  with  are,  says  Shen- 
stone, almost  imlimited.  They  have,  however,  as  a 
matter  of  historical  fact,  dealt  principally  with  two 
classes  of  subject.  These  are  the  elegies  of  unrequited 
or  unhappy  love,  and  the  elegies,  generally,  thotigh  not 
always,  more  sincere,  which  lament  the  loss  of  friends, 
which  grieve  over  the  wounds,  not  of  love,  but  oj  death. 
And  ive  English  have  in  our  rich  and  glorious  literature 
7ioble  specimens  of  both  kinds ;  though  ive  possess  no 
lament  of  wounded  love  which  can  be  spoken  of  in  the 
same  breath  with  the  elegiac  outburst  produced  by  the 
death  of  Sidney,  or  with  "  Lycidas,"  or  "  Adonais," 
or  Matthew  Arnold's  "  Thyrsis,"  or  the  "hi  Memoriam  " 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

of  Tennyson,  a  succession  of  noble  laments  over  the 
noble  dead,  which,  I  suppose,  no  other  literature  can 
rival.  The  Romans,  on  the  other  hand,  were  richer 
in  love  elegies  than  in  death  songs,  and  though  there 
are  fine  laments  over  death  by  Horace  and  Catullus, 
one  is  inclined,  in  spite  of  these,  and  in  spite  of  the 
great  elegi)  of  Propertius  on  Cornelia,  to  say  that  Virgil 
alone  of  Roman  poets  had  depth  and  tenderness  etiough 
to  write  a  great  elegy,  and  he  has  only  placed  some 
splendid  elegiac  passages  in  his  great  epic,  which  is 
not  the  same  thing. 

The  legitimate  range  of  the  elegy  is,  however,  not 
confined  to  the  subjects  of  Love  and  Death.  It  includes 
all  expressions  of  what  may  he  one  of  the  highest  and 
most  spiritual  moods  of  the  human  soul.  There  is  no 
form  of  sorrow,  from  the  gentle  meditative  melancholy 
of  Gray  to  the  passio?iate  outburst  of  some  arde?it 
Elizabethan  spirit,  of  tvhich  it  is  not  the  natural 
expression.  Indeed,  the  most  famous  elegiacs  ever 
7vritten  are  not  those  of  an  unhappy  lover  or  a 
bereaved  friend,  but  of  an  exile  crying  for  his  home. 
Elegy  begins,  one  may  suppose,  with  what  have  always 
been  its  two  special  subjects.  Love  and  Death;  and 
then  it  is  an  easy  step  from  the  lojiging  for  the  absent 
mistress  to  the  longing  for  the  distant  home;  and 
from  that  it  is  not  a  great  advance  to  the  scientific 
definition  I  have  quoted,  which  calls  all  poems  elegies 
which  describe  any  particular  object  as  at  once  desirable 
and  not  present. 

I  have  thought  it  well  to  point  out  the  wide  field 
over  which   elegy  may  fairly   claim  to   range.     But  it 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

is  obviously  quite  impossible  to  cover  the  whole  iii  a 
selection  like  the  present.  I  have,  therefore,  conjined 
mi/self  to  the  single  subject  of  death  and  the  dead,  the 
most  frequent  and  obvious  of  all  subjects  of  elegy,  and 
that  in  which  it  has  achieved  its  most  splendid  triicmph. 
So  much  is  this  the  case,  indeed,  that  there  is  always  a 
tendency,  not  supported  by  the  best  authorities,  to  restrict 
the  use  of  the  word  altogether  to  laments  for  the  dead. 
And  certainly  death,  though  not  the  only,  is,  at  least, 
the  most  peculiar  and  undoubted  provirice  of  elegy. 
Nor  is  there  any  doubt  aboid  its  affording  ample 
material  for  a  selection  of  this  kind.  My  difficulty 
throughoid  has  been  not  where  to  find  matter  for  in- 
serlio7i,  but  how  lo  find  room  for  it.  We  English 
have  time  out  of  mind  beefi  a  grave  people,  apt  more 
than  others  to  meditate  on  the  transitoriness  of  human 
things,  and  in  the  midst  of  life  to  let  our  thoughts  move 
in  the  directio?i  of  death.  And  our  poets,  from  Anglo- 
Saxon  times  to  our  oivn,  have  in  this  matter  been  no 
ill  representatives  of  the  national  character.  It  has, 
therefore,  seemed  wiser  to  keep  to  this  limited  field  of 
subject,  of  which  it  was  possible,  withotd  exceeding  the 
limits  of  this  Series,  to  prese7it  a  really  representative 
collection,  rather  than  to  attempt  the  wider  field,  which 
could  not  have  been  adequately  covered. 

As  to  subject,  then,  the  positio?i  is  clear.  Ho7vever 
properly  the  name  Elegy  is  applied  to  poems  dealing 
with  a  variety  of  subjects,  the  pieces  included  in  this 
volume  will  be  found  to  deal  only  with  one.  But  as 
to  form  ?  Are  we  to  be  confined,  as  the  ancients  came 
to  be,  to  poems  in  a  particular  metre  ?     Are  there  any 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

rules,  as  to  language  or  metre,  to  which  an  elegy  must 
conform,  if  it  is  to  deserve  the  name  ? 

"  The  proper  language  of  elegy,"  said  Lord  Chester- 
field, "is  the  unajfected  j)laintive  language  of  the 
passions "  :  and  Shenstone  says  that  its  style  should 
be  "simple,  diffuse,  and  flowing  as  a  mourner's  veil." 
If  this  is  so,  and  no  one  will  doubt  it,  it  is  obvious  that 
some  metres  will  be  more  suitable  to  elegy  than  others. 
I  have  felt  it  impossible  not  to  include  a  few  Sonnets 
in  this  selection,  because  I  felt  them  to  be  elegiac  in 
the  truest  sense,  touched  with  the  sadness  of  death  and 
the  mystery  of  fate  in  the  real  elegiac  way,  bid  I  have 
never  ceased  to  be  conscious  of  the  unfitness  of  the 
Sonnet  with  its  too  evident  architecture,  its  too  conscious 
art,  to  be  the  expression  of  the  simple  plaintive  tenderness 
which  is  the  most  frequent  and  the  most  distinctive  note 
of  elegy.  It  is,  no  doubt,  very  dangerous  to  dogmatise 
about  these  questions  of  the  relation  of  form  to  subject. 
The  critic  has  no  sooner  pronotmced  that  a  paiiicular 
subject  cannot  be  treated  in  this  or  that  metre,  than 
a  poet  arrives  to  perform  the  impossible  feat  with 
success  as  triumphant  as  that  with  which  Gainsborough's 
Blue  Boy  refuted  Sir  Joshua.  This  much  it  is,  how- 
ever, perhaps  safe  to  say  as  to  the  projjer  form  of 
elegy.  The  more  passionate  the  grief  is,  the  less 
obviotis  should  be  the  metrical  system.  The  heroic 
couplet,  for  instance,  the  structure  of  which  is  so 
evident  and  undisguised,  that  it  is  not  merely  felt, 
bid  understood,  at  once,  must  be  generally  quite  un- 
suitable for  any  kind  of  elegy,  and  especially  for 
the   more    passionate    sort.     Its    aptness  for   epigram, 


XX  INTRODUCTION 

its  besetting  sins  of  wit  and  rhetoric,  are  all  against 
it,  alien  as  they  are  to  the  elegiac  atmosphere.  A 
Jitter  metre  for  the  utterance  of  strong  feeling  is  such 
a  stanza  as  Matthew  Arnold  has  employed  in  Thyrsis, 
the  Spenserian  stanza  which  Shelley  chose  for  Adonais, 
or  the  irregidar  metre  of  Lycidas.  In  all  these  cases 
we  hear  the  music,  indeed,  from  the  first,  htd  it  may 
well  be  that  it  is  long  before  we  could  give  any  account 
of  its  system.  It  addresses  itself  to  the  ear,  not  to 
the  mind :  the  artist  seems  absorbed  in  his  grief,  not 
conscious  of  his  art,  not  thinJcing  of  ndes  of  versifica- 
tion, but  falling  inevitably  and  unawares  into  a  strain 
which  is  at  once  a  melodious  and  a  natural  idterance 
of  his  sorrow.  For  the  quieter,  more  meditative  elegy, 
on  the  other  hand,  a  structure  somewhat  more  obvioiis 
seems  the  best.  Gray,  who  had  made  a  special  study 
of  metre,  and  was,  besides,  the  best  of  judges  in  such 
a  matter,  chose  the  simple  foiir-lined  stajiza,  with  alter- 
nate rhymes,  for  his  Elegy,  and  everybody  feels  that 
the  perfect  simplicity  of  the  metre  is  one  of  the  things 
that  gave  the  poem  its  iindying  charm  and  make  it 
stand  alone  as,  in  popular  estimation,  "the  Elegy," 
unrivalled    and    nnique. 

We  may  gather  indications,  iii  this  way,  from  theory 
and  from  practice,  as  to  the  formal  conditio7is  to  be 
preferred  in  elegy.  But  whatever  differences  in  ^fitness 
there  may  be  between  this  metre  and  that,  we  shall  not  in 
modem  days  think  of  makirig  the  jyiistake  made  by  the 
ancients,  who  showed  a  tcjidency  to  confine  the  elegy  to  one 
form  of  metre.  The  divisions  of  poetry  rest  not  on  the  form 
but  on  the  spirit.     It  is  the  lyric  inspiration,  the  dramatic 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

visio7i,  which  decide  to  which  of  the  two  great  divisions 
a  poem  belongs.  Bccmty  of  form  may  be  everything, 
often  is  and  must  be  everything  in  deciding  the  success 
or  failure  oj  a  poem,  bid  it  is  by  its  mood  and  subject 
that  we  settle  in  what  class  that  success  or  failure  is 
to  be  registered.  And  so  in  elegy.  To  quote  Gray 
ai^ain,  "  Nature  and  sorrow  and  tenderness  are  the  true 
(renins  of  such  things,"  and  when  they  are  present,  in 
whatever  shape  and  U7ider  whatever  name,  we  unhesi- 
tatingly  recognise  the  true  elegy.  Spenser  or  Tennyson 
may  make  out  of  them  a  large  and  elaborate  poem  ; 
Herrick  a  few  incomparable  stanzas  drenched  with 
emotion;  Milton  and  Browne  a  pastoral;  Milton  and 
Gray  a  sonnet ;  Tennyson,  again,  and  Dryden,  an  ode ; 
but  while  the  special  name  or  form  adopted  may  weigh 
against  the  poem's  elegiac  claim,  it  must  never  be  con- 
sidered as  important  enough  to  bar  it  absolutely. 
Tennyson's  poem  on  Wellington  is  an  ode;  bid  a 
definition  of  elegy  which  excluded  it  would  be  ridiculous. 
Gray  might  veiy  well  have  called  his  greatest  poe7n  by 
another  name;  but  that  would  not  have  made  it  any 
the  less  the  supreme  and  typical  meditative  elegy.  The 
poet  must  be  left  to  choose  his  onm  form  of  expression, 
and,  whatever  it  may  be,  we  must  not  refuse  to  hear 
him,  though  much  of  his  success  may  depend  on  the 
wisdom  of  his  choice. 

After  saying  thus  much  about  the  elegy  in  general, 
it  is  time  to  turn  to  it  as  it  has  appeared  in  English 
Literature,  and  especially  to  that  particular  form  of 
it  represented  in  this  volume.      The  elegiac  mood  has. 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

as  I  said,  always  heen  a  favourite  one  in  England, 
and  we  are  not  surprised  to  jind  elegy  making  very 
early  appearance  in  our  poetry.  To  say  nothing  of 
four  remarkable  Anglo-Saxon  elegies,  of  which  Mr 
Stopford  Brooke  gives  an  interesthig  account  in  his 
"  Early  English  Eiterature"  we  find  that  when  English 
poetry,  as  we  know  it,  begins  to  make  its  appearance  in 
the  fourteenth  century,  elegy  at  once  claims  the  important 
place  it  has  ever  since  occupied.  "  The  cradle  song  of 
modem  English  Poetry  fvas  a  Lament ;  its  Vita  Nuova 
an  In  Memoriam ; "  says  Mr  Gollanz,  in  his  edition 
of  the  beautiful  fourteenth  century  poem  called  "Pearl." 
It  is  a  touching  expression  of  a  father  s  grief  for  his 
dead  daughter,  combining  in  remarkable  fashion  the 
gravity  which  appears  to  be  so  conspicuous  in  Anglo- 
Saxon  poetry  with  something  of  that  rich  sense  of  the 
beaidy  and  interest  of  the  world  which  could  not  come 
to  perfection  for  another  two  hundred  years.  It  consists 
of  a  hundred  a?id  one  verses  or  stanzas  of  twelve  lines 
each,  and  takes  the  form  of  a  vision  in  which  the  poet 
sees  the  "pearl  of  great  price,"  his  infant  daughter  whom 
he  had  lost,  and,  after  a  long  conversation  in  which 
she  instructs  him  in  the  divhie  wisdoin,  as  Beatrice 
instructs  Dante,  is  at  length  admitted  to  a  view  of  the 
New  Jerusalem,  to  arrive  at  which  he  is  eager  at  once 
to  cross  the  separating  stream,  but  is  awakened  in  his 
attempt,  and  fnds  himself  again  on  earth. 

Even  earlier  than  this  is  an  Elegy  on  Edward  I., 
reprinted  in  "  Percy's  Relics,"  the  forerunner  of  a  long 
series  of  poetic  laments  over  dead  ¥mgs  and  princes.  This 
poem  is  not,  however,  in  itself,  of  any  special  importance. 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

and,  fine  as  "Pearl"  is,  it  is  too  long,  and  written  in 
a  language  too  little  resembling  the  English  of  to-day, 
to  pennit  of  its  inchision  in  a  selection  of  this  kind. 
The  English  language,  as  me  know  it,  makes  its  appear- 
ance, of  course,  with  Chaucer;  and  here  again  it  is 
noticeable  that  the  first  ambitious  effort  of  our  first  great 
poet  was  an  Elegy.  "  The  Boke  of  the  Duchesse  "  was 
a  comjiliment  paid  hy  Chaucer  to  his  patron,  John  of 
Gaunt,  on  the  death  of  his  first  Duchess,  Blanche,  who 
died  in  1369.  It  has  been  underrated,  perhaps,  for  it 
already  has  charming  passages,  full  of  Chaucer's  bright 
and  human  pleasure  in  birds  and  flowers.  But  its  merits 
are  hardly  those  of  the  elegy,  and  it  is,  of  course,  far  too 
long  for  insertion  in  a  selection.  It  is  in  the  form  of  a 
dream,  so  common  in  the  Middle  Ages.  The  poet  goes 
hunting  and  comes  upon  a  man  in  black,  sitting  under  an 
oak,  who  first  makes  great  Imnentations  : 

"  No  man  may  my  sorwe  glade, 

That  t?iaketh  7ny  hewe  iofalle  and  fade  ; 

And  hath  f?iyn  understanding  lorn. 

That  me  is  wo  that  I  was  bom. 

May  noght  make  my  sorwes  slyde. 

Nought  the  remedies  of  Ovyde  ; 

Ne  Orpheus,  god  of  melody e, 

Ne  Dedalus,  with  playes  slye  ; 

Ne  hele  me  may  phisicicn, 

Noght  Ypocras,  ne  Galien  : 

Me  is  wo  that  I  live  houres  twelve.'''' 

Then  he  sings  the  praises  of  his  white  lady  (Blanche J 
and  finally  in  the  last  lines  tells  the  poet  that  she  is  dead, 
and  that  that  is  the  cause  of  his  sorrow. 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

The  poets  have,  as  a  rule,  in  spite  of  all  slanders, 
been  loyal  to  each  other,  and  especially  to  the  princes 
of  their  order.  The  death  of  Chaucer  did  not  produce 
any  regular  elegy,  hit  it  is  the  theme  of  several  touching 
elegiac  passages  in  the  poems  of  his  admiring  successors. 
Occlive,  in  the  Proem  to  his  "  De  Regimine  Principum," 
breaks  into  a  noble  utterance  of  his  love  and  sorrow  : 

' '  Btit  weleaway  !  so  is  niyne  herte  wo 

That  the  honour  of  Englisshe  tonge  is  dede 
Ofwhiche  I  was  wonte  have  counseile  and  rede. 

' '  0  maister  dere  and  fader  reverent. 
My  maister  Chaticer,Jloure  of  eloquence, 
Mirrour  offructuous  entendetnent, 
O  universal  fader  in  science. 
Alias !  that  thou  thyne  excellent  prudence 
In  thy  bedde  f?iortalle  myghtest  not  bequethe, 
What  eyled  dethe,  alias  !  why  wold  he  sle  the  ? 

"  O  Dethe  !  thou  didest  not  harme  singulere 
In  slazightre  of  hym,  but  alle  this  londe  it  smerteihe  ; 
But  naiheles  yit  hast  thow  no  powere 
His  name  to  she,  his  hye  vertu  astertethe 
Unslayne  fro  the  whiche  ay  us  lyfly  hertethe. 
With  bokes  of  his  ornat  endityng. 
That  is  to  alle  this  lande  enlumynyng. " 

Few  poets  have  been  honoiired  with  a  more  beautiful 
lament.  And  there  is  a?iother  passage,  of  similar  tone, 
in  the  body  of  the  poem.  Johi  Lydgate,  too,  the  Monk 
of  Bury  St  Edmunds,  pays  his  tribute  of  praise  and 
S0TT07V,  in  the  Prologues  to  his  "  Story  of  Thebes,"  and 
"Fall  of  Princes,"  and  i?i  his  "Praise  of  the  Virgin 
Maiy." 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

Of  other  elegiac  poetry  m  the  interval  between  Chaucer 
and  Surrey  the  most  remarkable  is  the  "  Lament  for  the 
Makaris"*  of  William  Dunbar,  which  I  have  inserted 
for  the  sake  of  the  interest  of  its  subject,  and  for  the 
grave  beauty  and  pathos  which  will  not  escape  even  those 
ivho  most  feel  the  quaintness  and  dijfculty  of  his  language. 
John  Skelton,  too,  who  was  Henry  VIII.  's  tutor,  has 
left  tis  some  elegies,  though  the  real  bent  of  his  poetic 
gift  was  rather  toward  satire.  There  is  one  on  Edward 
IV.,  and  another  which  is  maturer  and  finer,  on  the 
fotirth  Earl  of  Northumberland,  who  was  killed  in  a  riot 
in  lJi.89.  It  is  of  considerable  length  ;  but  a  few  verses 
may  be  quoted  here: 

"  If  the  hole  qitere  of  the  Musis  nyne 

In  me  all  onely  wer  sett  and  coniprysed, 
Enbrethed  -with  the  blast  of  influence  devyne. 

As  perfytly  as  could  be  thought  or  devised ; 

To  me  also  allt hough  it  were  promised 
Of  laureat  Phebus  holy  the  eloquence, 
All  were  to  ly  tell  for  his  7nagnificence." 


It  finishes  with  a  beaidiful  prayer  : 

"  0  perlese  Prince  of  heven  emperyall, 

That  with  one  word  formed  al  thing  of  noughte  ; 

Heven,  hell,  and  erth  obey  unto  thy  call ; 

Which  to  thy  7-esemblaunce  wondersly  hast  wroiight 
All  mankynd,  whom  thou  full  dere  hast  bought. 

With  thy  blond  precious  our  finautice  thou  did  pay. 

And  us  redemed from  the  fendys  pray  : 

*  Poets. 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION 

"  To  the  pray  we,  as  Prince  incomparable 
As  thou  art  of  mercy  attd pyte  the  well. 
Thou  bring  unto  thy  joy  eterminable 

The  soull  of  this  lordefrom  all  daunger  of  hell. 
In  endles  Mis  with  the  to  byde  and  dwell 
In  thy  palace  above  the  orient. 
Where  thou  art  Lord  and  God  oinnipotent. 

"  O  queue  of  mercy,  O  lady  full  of  grace. 

May  den  most  e  pur,  atid  Goddes  moder  dere. 
To  sorowful  hartes  chef  comfo7-t  and  solace. 
Of  all  women  O  flowre  without  en  pere. 
Pray  to  thy  Son  above  the  sterris  clere, 
He  to  vouchesaf,  by  thy  mediacion 
To  pardon  thy  servatint,  and  btynge  to  salvacion. 

"  In  joy  iriumphaunt  the  hevenly  yerarchy. 

With  all  the  hole  sorte  of  thai  glorious  place. 

His  soule  mot  receyve  into  theyr  company 

Thorow  boitnty  of  Hym  that  formed  all  solace  : 
Wei  of  pile,  of  mercy,  and  of  grace 

The  Father,  the  Sonn,  and  the  Holy  Ghost 

In  Trinitate  one  God  of  myghtes  moste." 

Besides  these,  there  is  the  curious  "  Boke  of  Philipp 
Sparotve,"  writteyi  in  the  first  years  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  on  the  death  of  a  sparrow,  belonging  to  Jane 
Scroupe,  who  was  bei?ig  educated  in  Carro?v  Nunnery 
near  Nonvich.  There  is,  of  course,  an  imitation  of 
Catullus,  but  there  is  much  besides.  The  poem  is  some 
1300  lines  long,  and  I  can  only  give  a  short  passage 
here.     Jane  Scroupe  is  speakijig : 

' '  Was  ttever  bird  in  cage 
More  gentle  of  courage 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

In  doing  his  homage 
Unto  his  sovereign. 
Alas,  I  say  again 
Death  hath  departed  us  twain 
The  false  cat  hath  thee  slain. 
Farewell!  Philipp,  adieu! 
Our  Lord  thy  soul  rescue. 
Fai'ewell  without  restore. 
Farewell  for  evermore." 


The  poem  naturally  wants  the  seriousness  of  elegy, 
which  only  the  melancholy  of  a  highly  civilised  age 
enabled  Catullus  and  Matthew  Arnold  to  give  to  the  death 
of  an  animal,  and  even  if  the  matter  were  more  serious, 
this  ambling  metre  would  prevent  it  from  making  any 
adequate  impression.  Skelton  has  a  touch  g/"  Rabelais 
or  Marot  about  him,  and  it  is  not  from  such  men  that 
we  look  for  elegy.  The  grave  beauty  of  the  lament  for 
Lord  Northumberland  belongs,  it  should  be  noted,  to  his 
early  life,  and  does  not  reappear. 

In  passing  from  the  tutor  of  Henry  V HI.' s  childhood 
to  the  poet  who  was  one  of  the  ornaments  and  07ie  of 
the  victims  of  the  close  of  his  reign,  we  definitely  pass 
from,  the  atmosphere  of  the  Middle  Ages  to  that  of  the 
Reiiaissance.  Skelton  has  a  little  of  each  about  hitn. 
The  satirist  of  clerical  abuses,  and  the  scholar,  whom 
Erasmus  could  call  "  Britannicarum  literarum  lumen  et 
decus,"  belong  to  the  new  order  of  things.  The  total 
want  of  order  and  method,  and  of  any  conception  of  the 
architecture  of  literary  work,  the  habit  of  thi?iking  that 
anything  that  occurs  to  him  is  worth  sayiiig,  and  that 
any  place  in  any  poem  will  suit  it  very  well,  all  this,  on 


xxviii  INTRODUCTION 

the  other  hand,  points  back  to  the  incoherence  of  the 
Middle  Age.  When  we  open  Surrey,  ?ve  feel  at  once 
that  we  have  passed  out  of  barbarism.  There  is  some- 
thing adult  and  almost  modern  m  the  new  propriety  of 
language,  in  the  co7nparative  reasonablefiess  of  the  out- 
look upon  life  and  the  world. 

The  hundred  years  which  elapsed  betiveen  Surrey's 
death  and  that  of  Charles  I.  form  the  most  brilliant  century 
in  our  literary  history,  and  elegy,  with  which  we  are 
co7icerned  here,  fills  its  full  place  in  it.  Naturally 
Spenser,  who  is  so  much  the  greatest  poetic  figure  of  the 
period,  if  we  leave  the  drama  out  of  account,  occupies 
the  frst  place  also  in  tlegy.  "  Astrophel,"  "  Daph- 
naida,"  "  The  Ruins  of  Time,"  constitute  an  imposing 
mass  of  elegiac  work  which  has  few  parallels.  Two  of 
them  relate  to  the  death,  which  called  forth  more  and 
fner  poetic  lamentation  than  that  of  any  Englishman 
before  or  since,  for  the  "  Ruins  of  Time  "  is,  hi  fact, 
an  additional  elegy  on  Sidney,  occasioned,  perhaps,  by 
the  consciousness  in  Spenser  himself,  or  in  others,  of 
the  inadequacy  of  "  Astrophel "  to  express  a  love  and 
sorrow  so  great  ivhenfell  by  so  great  a  poet.  Among 
other  poets  who  joiried  Spenser  in  attempting  to  express 
the  universal  grief  at  what  then  seemed,  arid  perhaps 
was  the  most  tragic  event  of  Elizabeth's  reign,  were  Fulke 
Grcville,  afterwards  Lord  Brooke,  Henry  Constable, 
Thomas  Watson,  and  Sir  Walter  Raleigh.  Two  of  these 
elegies,  with  others,  were  published  in  the  collection  of  which 
Spenser's  "Astrophel"  was  the  principal  poem.  One  may 
observe  in  nearly  all  these  pieces,  that  elegy  in  poets  of  the 
Renaissance  no  longer  strikes  quite  the  same  note  as  was 


INTRODUCTION  xxix 

struck  by  the  medieval  elegy.  The  old  feeling  aroused 
by  death  was,  as  it  were,  that  of  helplessness  before  the 
inevitable ;  death  is  only  one  more  dark  incident,  the 
final  one,  in  a  dark  and  difficult  world.  But  these  brave 
Renaissance  spirits,  who  ivalked  life's  journey  so  erect 
and  joyous  and  defiant,  intent  on  seeing,  knowing,  enjoy- 
ing, daring,  everything  that  life  might  put  in  their  way 
to  see  or  know  or  dare  or  enjoy,  could  not  conte^it  them- 
selves, when  they  saw  a  life  of  noble  promise  cut  short 
in  its  prime,  with  the  reflection  that  death  was  universal 
and  inevitable.  They  were  impatient  and  indignant  at 
the  apparent  loss  and  waste  that  death  involves.  If 
fvhat  the  men  of  the  Middle  Ages  felt  about  death 
amoujited  to  little  more  than  a  cold  consciousness  that  it 
is  the  common  lot,  if  our  feeling  aboiit  it  to-day  is 
principally  one  of  wonder  at  its  mystery,  it  is  neither 
its  mystery  nor  its  universality  that  chiejly  filled  the 
minds  of  the  men  of  the  Renaissance  ;  what  struck  them 
above  all  things  was  its  cruelty.  That  is  the  note  we 
catch  again  and  again  in  their  elegies,  and  not  least 
in  those  that Jollowed  Sidneys  death. 

A  generation  later,  when  the  stars  in  our  poetic  con- 
stellation had  become  more  numerous,  another  death 
occurred,  about  which  there  was  much  of  the  same  feel- 
ing of  bright  hopes  disappointed,  and  which  produced 
a  still  greater  body  of  elegiac  poetry.  But  few  arts  are 
rarer  than  that  of  making  the  poetic  plant  fourish  in 
courtly  soil,  and  though  Chapman,  Donne,  Drummond, 
Wither,  William  Brojvne,  and  Thomas  Campion  were 
among  the  many  poets  7vho  expressed  the  grief  they 
sincerely  felt  for  the  young  Prince  of  Wales,  who  had 
d 


XXX  INTRODUCTION 

shown  himself  a  true  patron  of  letters,  their  effoHs  pro- 
duced nothing  that  can  he  described  as  great  or  important 
poetry. 

Chapman's  poem,  which  contains  more  than  six  hundred 
lines,  and  is  almost  a  maze  of  confusion  and  obscurity, 
has  some  fine  passages  here  and  there.  In  one  he 
laments  that 

"  One  that  in  hope  took  up  to  topless  height 
All  his  great  a7icestors :  his  one  sail,  freight 
With  all,  all  Princes^  treasures  " 

should  die  so  young  that  he  can  have  accomplished 

"...  nothing  solid,  worthy  of  our  souls  ! 
Nothing  that  reason  more  than  sense  extols  I 
Nothing  that  may  in  pe?  feet  judgment  be 
A  fit  foot  for  our  crown  eternity." 

On  this  occasion  Henry  Peacham  published  a  hook 
of  his  poems,  containing  a  series  of  laments  for  the 
Prince,  and,  indeed,  the  custom  of  publishing  a  number 
of  elegies,  by  one  or  many  authors,  of  which  Spenser's 
"  Astrophel"  was  the  first  example,  had  now  grown 
not  uncommo7i. 

The  death  of  Ben  Jonson  in  1637,  which  was,  perhaps, 
regarded  as  a  greater  loss  by  men  of  letters  than  that 
of  any  other  English  poet  has  ever  been,  ?vas  at  once 
followed  by  the  publication  of  the  volume  called  "Jonsonus 
Virbius,"  which  consists  of  tributes  to  his  memory  con- 
trihited  by  authors,  among  whom  are  to  be  found  the 
names  of  Falkland,  who  opens  it  with  a  graceful  pastoral 
elegy,   Cleveland,    whose   charming   little  poem   will  he 


INTRODUCTION  xxxi 

found  in  this  selection,  Waller,  Ford,  Cartwright,  and  Sir 
John  Beaumont.  In  the  same  spirit,  though  with  inevit- 
ably inferior  effect,  more  thanjifty  of  Cartwright' s  friends, 
amongst  whom  were  Henry  Vaughan,  and  Henry  Lawes 
the  composer,  prefixed  verses  to  the  edition  of  his  plays  and 
poems  printed  in  1651.  Milton's  "  Lycidas  "  is,  agaiti, 
in  the  original  edition  of  1638,  the  last  of  thirteen  pieces 
which  were  together  entitled  "  Obsequies  to  the  memory 
of  Mr  Edward  King."  They  were  accompanied  by  a 
collection  of  Greek  and  Latin  verses  by  twenty-three 
authors.  Latin,  indeed,  was  often  employed  for  elegiac 
purposes ;  and,  to  give  only  one  instance,  the  friend 
whose  loss  Milton  felt  most  deeply  is  not  the  one  com- 
memorated in  the  English  "Lycidas,"  but  the  one  whom 
he  lamejited  in  his  beautiful  Latiti  pastoral,  "Epitaphiu?n 
Damonis."  Even  a  hundred  years  later.  Gray  lamented 
West  in  Latin  hexameter,  as  well  as  in  the  well-known 
sonnet,  and  the  Latin  poem  strikes  a  higher  note  than 
the  English.  Throughout  this  period,  from  the  publica- 
tion of  " AstropheV  to  that  of  "Lycidas,"  there  had 
been  a  steady  growth  in  the  fashion  of  writing  verses  to 
the  memory  of  the  dead.  The  greater  and  lesser  men  are 
alike  in  following  it;  and  the  result  is  naturally  an 
immense  quantity  of  artificial  and  mediocre  elegy.  Not 
much  is  worth  a  second  reading;  but  among  those  who 
deserve  to  be  remembered  are  William  Browne,  who 
succeeds  by  his  charming,  almost  childish,  simplicity ; 
Sir  John  Beaumont,  whose  elegies  are  an  important 
part  of  his  poetic  achievement,  and  are  marked,  like  all 
he  did,  by  a  certain  quiet  distinction,  not  so  much  of 
mind  us  of  tone  and  taste  ;  Donne,  whose  i?iterest,  on  the 


xxxii  INTRODUCTION 

other  hand,  is  spiritual,  and  above  all  things  intellectual  ; 
and  Jonson,  whose  feeling  is  sincere,  and  often  beautifully 
uttered,  though  not  always  easily  perceived  behind  his 
more  obvious  qualities  of  learning,  critical  acuteness,  and 
manly  understanding.  All  these  are  represented  in  this 
book.  Samuel  Daniel's  elegy  on  his  patron,  the  Earl  of 
Devonshire,  which  some  readers  may  perhaps  expect  to 
find  here,  has  seemed  to  me,  in  spite  of  its  evident 
sincerity,  of  too  pedestrian  a  style  and  conception  to 
justify  the  insertion  oj  a  poem  of  such  length. 

Elegy,  indeed,  more  than  once  during  this  period,  was 
treated  on  a  scale  entirely  forbidding  reproductio?i  in  a 
selection  like  the  present.  Like  Chaucer  in  his  "  Boke  of 
the  Diichesse,"  like  Skelton  in  " Philipp  Sparowe"  such 
men  as  Spenser,  Donne,  and  Ben  Jonson  set  themselves, 
bid  with  infinitely  greater  seriousness,  to  build  large  and 
ambitious  poems  on  the  superstructure  of  an  individual 
death.  Sidfiey's  death  gives  Spenser  occasion  to  intro- 
duce the  ruhied  city  of  Verularn  moralising  on  the  vanity 
of  human  things  ;  Jonson  builds  up  a  great  poem,  in  ten 
parts,  on  the  death  of  that  Lady  Digby,  whom  Habington 
also  celebrated  in  one  of  his  more  pleasing  elegies ;  and 
Donne  chose  to  give  his  splendid  creation,  the  "  Anatomy 
of  the  World,"  the  form  of  an  annual  lament  for  a  child 
whom  he  had  never  seen.  "  Mrs  Elizabeth  Drury,"  who 
was  Bacon's  niece,  and  is  said  to  have  been  the  intended 
bride  of  Prince  Henry,  died  in  1610,  when  she  was 
only  fifteen.  Next  year  the  "Funeral  Elegy,"  given 
in  this  selection,  and  the  "  First  Anniversary"  were 
published,  and  in  1612  the  "  Second  Anniversary " 
Jollowed.     The  whole   was   entitled  "  An  Anatomy   of 


INTRODUCTION  xxxiii 

the  World ;  wherein,  by  occasion  of  the  untimely  death 
of  Mistress  Elizabeth  Druiy,  the  frailty  and  decay  of 
this  whole  world  is  represeiited."  The  "Second  Anni- 
versary "  has  also  the  title  "  Of  the  Progress  of  the 
Soul;  wherein  by  occasion  of  the  religious  death  of 
Mistress  Elizabeth  Drury,  the  incommodities  of  the  soul 
in  this  life,  and  her  exaltation  in  the  next,  are  con- 
templated "  ;  and  Donne  has  filled  it  full  of  power  of 
every  kind,  so  that  it  rises  above  its  original  relation 
to  Elizabeth  Drury,  and  becomes  the  vehicle  ofthejjoet's 
grandest  thoiight  about  life  and  death  and  the  body. 
For  a  parallel  to  it  we  must  wait  till  Tennyson  s  "In 
Memoriam,"  or  Brotvtiing's  "La  Saisiaz." 

Of  these  three  great  poems,  I  regret  particularly  that 
considerations  of  space  have  prevented  the  insertion  of 
Spenser's  "Ruins  of  Time,"  which  contains  some  beauti- 
ful stanzas  conseci-ated  to  Sidney  s  memory.  A  few 
only  can  be  given  here  : 

"  O  noble  spirit e  !  live  there  ever  blessed. 

The  world's  late  wonder,  and  the  heaven^ s  new  Joy  ; 
Live  ever  there,  and  leave  tne  here  distressed 
With  mortall  cares  and  ctimbrous  worlds  anoy  ! 
But,  where  thou  dost  that  happines  enjoy. 
Bid  me,  O I  bid  me  quicklie  come  to  thee. 
That  happie  there  I  tnaie  thee  alwaies  see. 

"  Yet,  whilest  the  fates  affoord  me  vitall  breath, 
I  will  it  spend  in  speaking  of  thy  praise. 
And  sing  to  thee,  untill  that  timelie  death 
By  heavens  doome  doo  ende  my  earthlie  dales  : 
Thereto  doo  thou  my  humble  spi7-ite  raise. 
And  into  me  that  sacred  breath  inspire 
Which  thou  there  breathest  perfect  and  entire. 


xxxiv  INTRODUCTION 

"  Then  will  I  sing :  but  who  can  better  sing 
Than  thine  owne  sister,  peerles  Ladie  bright. 
Which  to  thee  sings  with  deep  harts  sorrowing, 
Sorrowing  tempered  with  deare  delight. 
That  her  to  heare  I feele  my  feeble  spright 
Robbid  of  sense,  and  ravished  with  Joy : 
O  sad  joy,  made  of  mourning  and  anoy  ! 

"  Yet  will  I  sing ;  but  who  caji  better  sing 

Than  thou  thy  selfe,  thine  owne  selfes  valiance. 
That,  whilest  thou  livedst,  madest  theforrests  ring. 
And  fields  7-esownd,  andflockes  to  leap  and  daunce. 
And  shepheards  leave  their  lambs  unto  mischaunce. 
To  runne  thy  shrill  Arcadian  Pipe  to  heare : 
0,  happie  were  those  dayes,  thrice  happie  were  I 

' '  But  now,  more  happie  thou,  and  wretched  wee 
Which  want  the  wonted  sweetnes  of  thy  voice. 
Whiles  thou,  now  in  Elisian  fields  so  free. 
With  Orpheus,  and  with  Linus,  attd  the  choice 
Of  all  that  ever  did  in  rimes  rejoice, 
Conversest  and  doost  heare  their  heavenlie  layes. 
And  they  heare  thine,  and  thine  doo  better  praise. 

"So  there  thou  livest,  singing  evermore, 
And  here  thou  livest,  being  ever  song 
Of  us,  which  living  loved  thee  afore. 
And  now  thee  worship  mongst  that  blessed  throng 
Of  heave^ilie  Poets  and  Heroes  strong. 
So  thou  both  here  and  there  iftwiortall  art. 
And  ever ie  where  through  excellent  desart." 

One  caimot  but  be  struck  7vith  the  way  in  which 
Spenser,  most  delicately,  exquisitely  gifted  of  English- 
men, Jills  the  elegy  full  of  his  ineffable  charm  and 
tenderness.  Donne,  on  the  other  hand,  almost  buries 
the  note  of  lament  i?i  his  curious  and  subtle  thinking,  as 


INTRODUCTION  xxxv 

he  so  often  buries  his  power  of  thought  under  a  tangled 
overgrowth  of  conceits.  It  is  difficult  by  quotation  to 
give  any  idea  of  the  "Anatomy" ;  but  besides  the 
"  Fimeral  Elegy,"  which  has  been  inserted  in  the  selec- 
tion, a  few  passages  may  be  given  here  tvhich  will  afford 
some  slight  indication  of  Donne's  method  of  treating 
his  subject.  Here  is  the  opening  of  the  "  First  An7ii- 
versary  " : 

"  When  that  7'ich  soul  which  to  her  heaven  is  gone, 
Whom  all  do  celebrate,  who  know  they  ''ve  one 
— For  who  is  sure  he  hath  a  soul,  unless 
It  see,  and  Judge,  and  follow  worthiness, 
And  by  deeds  praise  it  ?  he  who  doth  not  this. 
May  lodge  an  innate  soul,  but  'tis  not  his — "  ; 

or  take  this  passage  from  the  "  Second  Anniversary  "  : 

"  Thin/;,  then,  my  soul,  that  death  is  but  a  groom. 
Which  brings  a  taper  to  the  outward  room. 
Whence  thoti  spiest  first  a  little  glimmenng  light. 
And  after  brings  it  nearer  to  thy  sight "  ; 

or  this  : 

"  She,  she  embraced  a  sickness,  gave  it  meat, 
The  purest  blood,  and  breath,  that  e'er  it  eat ; 
And  hath  taught  us,  that  though  a  good  man  hath 
Title  to  heaven,  and  plead  it  by  his  faith. 
And  though  he  may  pretend  a  conquest,  since 
Heaven  was  content  to  suffer  violence. 
Yea  though  he  plead  a  long  possessioji  too 
— For  they  're  in  heaven  on  earth  who  heaven's  works  do — 
Though  he  had  right  and  power  and  place,  before, 
Yet  death  must  usher,  and  unlock  the  door." 


xxxvi  INTRODUCTION 

There  is  no  need  to  speak  of  Jonsoti's  "  Eupheme," 
for  the  largest  and  most  striking  of  those  of  its  ten  parts 
which  survive,  has  been  included  in  the  selection.  It  will 
be  found  full  of  fine  religious  feeling,  nobly  and 
characteristically  uttered.  Another  instance  of  elegy  on 
a  large  scale,  thojigh  not  so  large  as  these,  is  afforded 
by  Francis  Quarles'  "  Alphabet  of  Elegies "  on  Arch- 
deacon Ailmer,  mho  died  in  1625.  The  title  of  the 
volume  is  "  A71  Alphabet  of  Elegies,  Upon  the  much 
and  truly  lamented  death  of  that  famous  for  Learning, 
Piety,  and  true  Friendship,  Doctor  Ailmer,  a  great 
favourer,  and  fast  friend  to  the  Muses,  and  late  Arch- 
deacon of  London,  Imprinted  in  his  Heart,  that  ever 
loves   his   Memory  —  written  by   Fra.    Quarles.       Cum 

Privelegioi'jf"'j\oris.     Dignum  laude  virum  Musa  vetat 

mori."  It  consists  of  twenty-two  "  elegies,"  each  co?isist- 
ing  of  six  rhymed  couplets.  Quarles  is,  of  course,  not  a 
poet  of  the  order  of  Spenser  or  Jonson  or  Donne  ;  but 
there  is  feeling  and  some  force  of  expression  in  the 
"  Alphabet."  Here  are  two  of  the  Elegies,  No.  10,  and 
No.  13  : 

Knowledge  (the  depth  of  whose  unbomtded  main 
Hath  been  the  wreck  of  many  a  cuHotis  braine 
And  from  her  (yet  unreconciled)  schooles 
Hath  filPd  its  with  so  many  learned  fool es) 
Hath  tiitoy^d  thee  with  rules  that  cannot  erre. 
And  taught  thee  how  to  know  thy  selfe,  and  her ; 
Furnisht  thy  nimble  sotile  in  height  of  measure. 
With  humane  riches  and  divinest  treasure, 
Frofn  whence,  as  from  a  sacred  spring,  did  flow 
Fresh  Oracles,  to  let  the  hearer  know 


INTRODUCTION  xxxvii 

A  way  to  gloiy :  and  to  let  him  see. 
The  way  to  glory,  is  to  study  thee. 


"  No,  no,  he  is  not  dead :   The  moitlh  of  fame, 
Honors  shrill  Herald,  wotild preserve  his  name. 
And  make  it  live  in  spight  of  death  and  dust. 
Were  there  no  other  heaven,  no  other  trust. 
He  is  not  dead :  the  sacred  Nine  deny. 
The  sotile  that  f?ierits  Fame,  should  ever  die : 
He  lives  ;  and  when  the  latest  breath  of  fame 
Shall  want  her  Trumpe,  to  glorifie  a  name. 
He  shall  survive,  and  these  selfe-closcd  eyes. 
That  now  lie  slumbring  in  the  dust,  shall  rise. 
And  filPd  with  endlesse  glory,  shall  enjoy 
The  perfect  vision  of  eternall  joy.'''' 

This  period  closes,  as  I  said,  ivith  Milton's  "  Li/cidas.'' 
There  grief  is  still  passionate  in  idterancc,  whatever  it 
may  have  been  ifi  feeling  ;  still  passionate,  out-speaking, 
deep-feelitig,  as  the  men  of  the  Renaissance  and  the  early 
seventeenth  ceiitury  were  ;  as  Herrick  still  shoivs  himself 
in  a  hundred  little  pieces,  not  projessed  elegies,  hut  fuller, 
some  of  them,  of  elegiac  sentiment  than  many  poems 
which  enjoy  the  name ;  but  with  Herrick  and  Milton  the 
old  world  goes,  politeness  takes  the  place  of  passion,  and 
elegy  is  hardly  recognisable  in  its  critical,  panegyrical, 
complimentary  dress,  as  seen  in  MarveWs  and  Dryden's 
poems  071  Cromwell,  or  in  the  great  ode  on  "  Mrs  Anne 
Killigrew."  It  is  not  in  the  main  poetic  current  of  the 
age  of  prose  that  we  must  look  for  its  highest  utterance 
of  the  elegiac  sentiment.  Great  elegies  are  not  easily 
written  with  the  applause  of  "  the  tonm  "  in  view.  But 
side  by  side  with  the  domina^d  taste  for  wit  and  epigram, 


xxxviii  INTRODUCTION 

there  existed  throughout  the  eighteenth  century  a  simpler 
poetry,  the  tone  of  ivhich  is  quiet,  tender,  meditative. 
Its  principal  representatives  are,  of  course,  Gray  and 
Collins.  Elegij,  in  their  hands,  is  7io  longer  a  passionate 
utterance  of  grief;  it  becomes  simply  a  quiet  meditation 
on  mortality.  Still,  unambitious  as  this  foryn]  appears, 
Gray  has  knorvn  how  to  discover  in  it  such  great  possi- 
bilities, and  to  realise  them  with  a  perfection  so  unique, 
that  we  all  think  of  him,  more  than  of  anyone  else,  as 
uttering  the  universal  elegiac  sentiment  of  humanity,  and 
even  a  critic,  so  little  disposed  to  overpraise  him  as  Mr 
Swinburne,  is  compelled  to  declare  that  "  as  an  elegiac 
poet,  he  holds  for  all  ages  his  unassailable  and  sovereign 
station." 

There  is  the  less  need  to  say  much  here  of  elegy  as 
it  has  appeared  in  the  last  two  centmies  of  our  literature, 
as  the  general  lines  on  which  English  poetry  has  moved 
are  well  ktiown,  and.  elegy  has  followed  them  as  much  as 
any  other  foi'm  of  verse.  The  selection  may  accordingly 
be  left  to  speak  for  itself.  It  is  hoped  that  it  will  be  found 
fairly  representative.  With  Dryden  and  Pope  to  stand  for 
the  main  stream  of  poetic  activity  after  the  Restoration,  with 
Gray  and  Collins  for  that  smaller  stream  which  mingled 
with  the  other  7vithout  losing  characteristics  of  its  own, 
Cowperfor  the  revival  of  truth  and  simplicity,  Burns  for 
that  of  passion,  Shelley  for  that  of  the  higher  poetic 
imagination,  Wordsworth  for  that  profound  sense  of  the 
seriousness  of  life,  always  latent  in  the  English  character, 
which  he  more  than  anyone  gave  back  to  English  poetry, 
I  hope  it  will  be  felt  that  nothing  importa^it  has  been 
omitted.     I  am  happy,  too,  in  being  able  now  to  add 


INTRODUCTION  xxxix 

some  7ioble  specimens  of  the  elegiac  work  of  Tennyson 
aiul  Matthew  Arnold.  For,  of  course,  there  is  no  poetic 
form  in  which  the  special  gifts  both  of  Tennyson  and  of 
Arnold  found  more  complete  expression  than  in  that  of 
elegy.  The  extent  of  their  elegiac  work,  too,  is  very 
considerable.  Much  of  it  is,  however,  still  under  the 
restrictions  of  copyright.  It  was  a  special  pleasure  to 
me  that  Messrs  Macmillan  felt  able  to  relax  these  so 
far  as  to  allow  me  to  print  "  Thyrsis"  and  "  Geist's 
Grave."  For  the  "  Memorial  Verses,"  beautiful  as  they 
are,  could  not  by  themselves  have  given  any  adequate 
representation  of  the  elegy  as  Matthew  Arnold  treated 
it.  And  if  Ar?iold  also  had  been  poorly  represented 
in  the  selection,  I  should  have  felt  an  even  keener  regret 
than  I  now  do  at  my  inability  to  obtaifi  permission  for 
the  insertion  of  any  copyright  poems  of  Tennyson.  For 
Tennyson  and  Arnold,  I  think,  each  in  his  ow7i  special 
way,  and  more  than  anyone  else,  represented  the  peculiar 
thoughtfulness,  descended  from  Wordsworth  perhaps,  but 
no  longer  the  same  as  his,  belonging  now  half  to  doubt  as 
7vell  as  half  to  faith,  which  is  a  conspicuous  characteristic 
of  our  oivn  day.  I  have  been  so  fortunate,  however, 
as  to  obtain  the  leave  of  the  greatest  of  living  English 
poets  to  insert  four  of  his  many  rioble  laments ;  and 
I  cannot  too  warmly  express  my  gratitude  to  him  for 
allowing  me  so  to  enrich  my  selection.  I  owe  also  a 
great  debt  of  gratitzide  to  Mr  Robert  Bridges  for  the 
kindness  by  which  I  have  been  enabled  to  print  three 
beautiful  elegies  of  his,  one  of  which,  in  its  rich  loveli- 
ness, recalls  the  Elizabethans,  while  nothing  could  be 
more  modern  than  the   others,   with   their    Whitmanlike 


xl  INTRODUCTION 

gift  of  making  the  actual  fact,  in  its  most  naked  reality, 
serve  the  full  purpose  of  poetry.  Everyone  into  whose 
hands  this  book  may  come  will  be  glad  that  they  are  here; 
and  everyone,  again,  will  feel .  with  me  that  no  selection 
of  English  Elegies  could  to-day  be  considered  anythhig 
bid  most  incomplete  which  did  not  include  Mr  William 
Watson  s  noble  poem  on  the  death  of  Tennyson ;  and 
will  be  as  grateful  to  him,  as  I  am,  for  allowing  me  to 
insert  it.  I  am  also  greatly  indebted  to  Mr  Le  Gallienne 
for  his  generosity  in  giving  me  leave  to  print  his  fine 
Elegy  071  Stevenson :  as  well  as  to  Mr  Watts-Dunton, 
Mrs  Meynell,  and  the  representatives  of  the  Rev.  E.  C. 
Lefroy,  all  of  whom  have  enriched  the  selection  by  their 
kindness. 

On  the  whole,  I  hope,  in  spite  of  omissions  which  are 
my  7nisfortune,  and  some,  too,  perhaps,  which  are  my 
fault,  that  the  book  may  be  thought  to  include  an 
adequate  selection  from  the  immense  mass  of  English 
elegiac  poetry.  I  can  only  say  that  I  have  tried  to 
consider  everything  that  had  a  claim  to  be  admitted, 
that,  while  most  of  the  poems  included  are  included 
on  what  I  conceive  to  be  their  intrinsic  7nerits,  some 
have  also  been  given  on  account  of  their  representa- 
tive or  historic  interest,  and  that  I  have  greatly 
regretted  the  necessary  exclusion  of  many  the  insertion  of 
which  has  only  been  prevented  by  co?isiderations  of  space. 
In  any  case,  I  thi?ik  it  fvill  be  admitted  that  the  elegies 
reprinted  are  remarkable  proof  that  hardly  any  moment 
in  the  life  of  English  poetry  has  failed  to  find  expression 
in  elegy. 

It   has   not  been   thought   necessary   to   say  anything 


INTRODUCTION  xli 

of  the  classes  into  which  elegies  have  sotnetimes  been 
divided.  The  Love  Elegij  is,  indeed,  a  class  by  itself, 
btd  we  have  nothing  to  do  with  it  here,  as  this  selection 
is  confined  to  elegies  dealing  with  death.  It  is,  no  doubt, 
possible  to  distinguish  diff'ere?d  forms  among  these,  such 
as  the  large  poem  involvitig  something  like  a  story,  as  the 
"  Boke  of  the  Duchesse,"  the  Pastoral  elegy  which  ex- 
tends from  Spenser's  "  Daphnaida  "  to  Dryden's  "  Tears 
of  Amyrdas,"  the  simple  lament  which  is  the  one  most 
largely  represented  in  this  volume,  the  literary  and 
critical  elegy  like  Dryden's  "  Oldham,"  and  the  poem 
of  general  meditation  and  reflection  tinged  with  melan- 
choly, like  Gray's  '"Elegy,"  and  minor  productions 
of  the  same  class,  like  Michael  Bruce' s  "  Elegy  in 
Spring."  The  Comic  Elegy  and  the  Satirical  Elegy, 
which  have  sometimes  been  added,  have  no  more  to 
do  with  that  form  of  poetry  called  Elegy  than  a 
comic  history  has  with  that  form  of  prose  called 
History. 

There  is  another  set  of  poems  represented  in  this 
volume,  which  perhaps  deserves  to  be  considered  a 
separate  class.  It  might  be  said  that  a  man  cannot, 
strictly  speaking,  write  his  own  elegy,  any  more  than 
he  can  pronounce  his  own  funeral  oration.  But  many 
poets  have  spoken  with  touching  effect  of  their  own 
deaths;  and  I  have  thought  myself  entitled  to  treat 
such  poems  as  essentially  elegies.  There  is  a  remark- 
able series  of  them :  the  thoughts  of  such  men  as 
Raleigh,  Shakspeare,  Dminmond,  Herrick,  Gray,  Bums, 
Landor — and  I  wish  I  had  been  allowed  to  add  Tennyson 
and  Browning — on  their  own  deaths,  give  us,  it  seems 


xlii  INTRODUCTION 

to  me,  a  long  line  of  poems  of  quite  unique  and  truly 
elegiac  interest. 

A  note  should,  perhaps,  be  added  on  the  distinction 
between  the  Elegy  and  the  Epitaph.     The  words  have 
been  so   constantly  interchanged,   and  the  one  form  so 
easily  passes  into   the  other,  that  it   would   have   been 
easy  to  justify  the  inclusion  of  a  good  many  epitaphs. 
The  proper    distinction,   however,   seems   to   me   to    be 
that  an  elegy  is  a  lament,  tvhile  an  epitaph  is  an  in- 
scription.    The  one  is  a  statement  of  facts   about  the 
dead,  the  other  an   expression  of  the  feelings  of  the 
living.      Of   course  they  easily  pass   into   each    other. 
But  the  distinction  is  a  real  one,  and  I  have  endeavowed 
to  observe  it ;  though  I  have  not  felt  bound  to  exclude 
such    a  piece   as   Pope's   lines   on   the   Digbys,  tvhich, 
although  actually  inscribed  on  their  monument,  seem  to 
me  to  strike  the  7iote  of  elegy ;  or,  again,  Clevelaiurs 
epitaph  on   Ben   Jonson,   which   was   all   that  I  could 
find  room  for  of  that  famous  elegiac  collection,  "  Jon- 
sonus  Virbius."     There  is  something  of  the  same  diffi- 
culty  about   the   literarif   or  critical   elegy;    hit  it  has 
not  been  thought   necessary   to   refrain  from  including 
such  a  piece  as  Jonson  s  noble  poem   on   Shakspeare, 
though  it   is   certainly  at    least   as   much   a  eulogy   as 
a    lameyit.       Definitions    in    a    matter   so   delicate   as 
poetry  must   not   be   too   rigidly  pressed.     Jonson  was 
a  critic,  and  he  took  a  critic's  way  of  expressing  his 
se?ise  of  loss. 

With  this,  I  tvill  leave  the  selection  to  speak  for 
itself  Much  may,  no  doubt,  be  said  against  the  makintr 
of  more   and   ever  more  Anthologies.     But   a  genera- 


INTRODUCTION  xliii 

lion  which  has  seen  the  popidnrity  of  Mr  Pcdgrave's 
"  Golden  Treasury  of  Lyrics,"  and  of  such  volumes 
as  Matthew  Arnold's  "Selection  from  Wordsworth," 
can  hardly  deny  their  jjossibilities  of  usefulness.  It  is 
to  be  hoped  that  in  a  volume  like  the  present,  the  tracing 
of  a  special  form  of  poetry  throtighoid  the  history  of 
our  literature  has  a  value  of  its  own.  But,  apart 
from  such  considerations,  there  is  surely  an  advantage  of 
a  more  popidar  order  in  volumes  of  selections.  If 
choice  poems,  even  those  that  are  the  work  of  great 
men,  are  to  be  found  only  in  complete  editio7is  of  their 
authors,  by  the  large  majority  they  will  never  be  found 
at  all.  There  must  be  many  people,  who  really  appreci- 
ate poetry,  bid  have  neither  opportunity  nor  inclination  to 
stiidy  such  poets  as  Donne  and  Ben  Jonson  for  them- 
selves. There  is  always  much  in  an  old  writer  that  is 
difficult  to  the  ordinary  modem  reader;  and  he  is 
probably  unable  or  umvilling  to  search  oid  the  part 
which  is  not.  The  humblest  of  Anthologies  may  play 
a  useful  function  here.  It  represents  the  small,  the 
new,  the  easy,  in  contrast  with  the  large,  the  old,  the 
difficult;  and  it  may  be  a  stepping-stone  to  something 
better  than  itself  How  many  of  us  owe  our  knowledge 
of  some  of  our  favourite  poets,  whom  we  should  not 
otherwise  have  so  much  as  heard  of,  to  a  chance  poem 
seen  and  learnt  by  heart  in  the  "  Golden  Treasury" 
which  sent  us  on  to  all  the  rest  ? 

There  is  o?dy  one  more  word  to  say.  We  are  all — 
all  of  us,  at  any  rate,  who  are  likely  to  care  for  poetry — 
certain  to  have  from  time  to  time  our  elegiac  moods. 
Sorrow  is  a  visitor  at  every  gate,  one  day  or  the  next ; 


xliv  INTRODUCTION 

and  in  her  presetice  those  of  us  who  really  believe  in 
the  high  iiifluence  poetry  has,  or  may  have,  over  us, 
are  inclined  to  turn  to  poetry  for  part,  and  perhaps  for 
a  large  part,  of  the  needed  consolation.  No  poetry 
should  be  nearer  to  us  at  such  times  than  that  which 
was  itself  written,  as  elegy  has  so  often  been,  under  the 
shadow  of  actual  and  personal  grief  The  chief  thing 
which  distinguishes  poets  from  other  men  is  not  that  they 
feel  differently  from  the  rest  of  us,  bid  that  they  can 
utter  what  we  can  only  feel.  It  is  natural,  then,  that  we 
should  go  to  them  ;  and  it  may  well  be  that  by  breathing 
for  a  while  their  higher  atmosphere,  we  may  learn  some- 
thing of  their  sources  of  consolation,  and  gain  for  our- 
selves, too,  some  portion  of  that  power  of  mastering  the 
emotions  without  ceasing  to  feel  them  at  their  fullest, 
which  is  for  tliem  the  necessary  condition  of  their  titter- 
ance,  and  for  us  all,  as  well  as  for  them,  the  true  secret 
oflfe. 

J.  C.  B. 


ENGLISH    ELEGIES 


DAPHNAIDA 

[An  Elegie  upon  the  Death  of  the  noble  and  vertuous  Douglas 
Howard,  daughter  and  heire  of  Heniy  Lord  Howard,  and 
wife  of  Arthur  Go7ges,  Esquire.     By  Ed.  Sp.  1591.] 

What-ever  man  be  he  whose  heavy  mind, 
With  grief  of  mournful  great  mishap  oppressed, 
Fit  matter  for  his  cares  increase  would  find, 
Let  read  the  rueful  plaint  herein  expressed, 
Of  one,  (I  ween),  the  woefulst  man  alive. 
Even  sad  Alcyon,  whose  empierced  breast 
Sharp  sorrow  did  in  thousand  pieces  rive. 

But  whoso  else  in  pleasure  findeth  sense, 

Or  in  this  wretched  life  doth  take  delight. 

Let  him  be  banished  far  away  from  hence ; 

Ne  let  the  sacred  Sisters  here  be  hight,* 

Though  they  of  sorrow  heavily  can  sing ; 

For  even  their  heavy  song  would  breed  delight ; 

But  here  no  tunes,  save  sobs  and  groans,  shall  ring. 

In  stead  of  them,  and  their  sweet  harmony. 
Let  those  three  fatal  Sisters,  whose  sad  hands 
Do  weave  the  direful  threads  of  destiny. 
And  in  their  wrath  break  off  the  vital  bands. 
Approach  hereto ;  and  let  the  dreadful  Queen 
Of  Darkness  deep  come  from  the  Stygian  strands. 
And  grisly  Ghosts,  to  hear  the  doleful  teene.t 


*  called.  f  sorrow. 

A 


I  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

In  gloomy  evening,  when  the  weary  Sun, 
After  his  day's  long  labour  drew  to  rest, 
And  sweaty  steeds,  now  having  overrun 
The  compassed  sky,  'gan  water  in  the  west, 
I  walked  abroad  to  breathe  the  freshing  air 
In  open  fields,  whose  flowering  pride,  oppressed 
With  early  frosts,  had  lost  their  beauty  fair. 

There  came  unto  my  mind  a  troublous  thought. 
Which  daily  doth  my  weaker  wit  possess, 
Ne*  lets  it  rest  until  it  forth  have  brought 
Her  long  borne  Infant,  fruit  of  heaviness. 
Which  she  conceived  hath  through  meditation 
Of  this  world's  vainness  and  life's  wretchedness, 
That  yet  my  soul  it  deeply  doth  empassion. 
So  as  I  mused  on  the  misery 
In  which  men  I've,  and  I  of  many  most 
Most  miserable  man  ;  I  did  espy 
Where  towards  me  a  sorry  wight  did  cost,t 
Clad  all  in  black,  that  mourning  did  bewray, 
And  Jacob  staff  in  hand  devoutly  crossed, 
Like  to  some  Pilgrim  come  from  far  away. 

His  careless  locks  uncombed  and  unshorn, 
Hung  long  adown,  and  beard  all  overgrown. 
That  well  he  seemed  to  be  some  vdght  forlorn  ; 
Down  to  the  earth  his  heavy  eyes  were  thrown. 
As  loathing  light ;  and  ever  as  he  went 
He  sighed  soft,  and  inly  deep  did  groan, 
As  if  his  heart  in  pieces  would  have  rent. 

Approaching  nigh,  his  face  I  viewed  near. 
And  by  the  semblantj  of  his  countenance 
Me  seemed  I  had  his  person  seen  elsewhere, 
Most  like  Alcyon  seeming  at  a  glance  ; 
Alcyon  he,  the  jolly  Shepherd  swain 
That  wont  full  merrily  to  pipe  and  dance. 
And  fill  with  pleasance  every  wood  and  plain. 

*  nor.  t  approach.  J  semblance. 


SPENSER  : 

Yet  half  in  doubt,  because  of  his  disguise, 

I  softly  said,  "Alcyon!"    There-with-all 

He  looked  aside  as  in  disdainfull  wise, 

Yet  stayed  not,  till  I  again  did  call : 

Then,  turning  back,  he  said,  with  hollow  sound, 

"Who  is  it  that  doth  name  me,  woeful  thrall. 
The  wretched'st  man  that  treads  this  day  on  ground  ? ' 

"One,  whom  like  woefulness,  impressed  deep. 
Hath  made  fit  mate  thy  wretched  case  to  hear. 
And  given  like  cause  with  thee  to  wail  and  weep ; 
Grief  finds  some  ease  by  him  that  like  does  bear. 
Then  stay,  Alcyon,  gentle  shepherd !  stay, 
(Quoth  I)  till  thou  have  to  my  trusty  ear 
Committed  what  thee  doth  so  ill  apay."  * 

"  Cease,  foolish  man  !  "  (said  he,  half  wrothfully) 
"To  seek  to  hear  that  which  cannot  be  told. 
For  the  huge  anguish,  which  doth  multiply 
My  dying  pains,  no  tongue  can  well  unfold  ; 
Ne  do  I  care  that  any  should  bemoan 
My  hard  mishap,  or  any  weep  that  would, 
But  seek  alone  to  weep,  and  die  alone." 

"Then  be  it  so,"  (quoth  I)  "that  thou  art  bent 
To  die  alone,  unpitied,  unplained ; 
Yet,  ere  thou  die,  it  were  convenient 
To  tell  the  cause  which  thee  thereto  constrained, 
Lest  that  the  world  thee  dead  accuse  of  guilt, 
And  say,  when  thou  of  none  shalt  be  maintained. 
That  thou  for  secret  crime  thy  blood  hast  spilt." 

"Who  life  does  loathe,  and  longs  to  be  unbound 
From  the  strong  shackles  of  frail  flesh,"  quoth  he, 

"  Nought  cares  at  all  what  they,  that  live  on  ground, 
Deem  the  occasion  of  his  death  to  be ; 
Rather  desires  to  be  forgotten  quite, 
Than  question  made  of  his  calamity. 
For  hearts  deep  sorrow  hates  both  life  and  light. 

*  please. 


4  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

*'  Yet  since  so  much  thou  seem'st  to  rue  my  grief, 
And  car'st  for  one  that  for  himself  cares  nought, 
(Sign  of  thy  love,  though  nought  for  my  relief, 
For  my  relief  exceedeth  living  thought ;) 
I  will  to  thee  this  heavy  case  relate : 
Then  hearken  well  till  it  to  end  be  brought. 
For  never  didst  thou  hear  more  hapless  fate. 

"  Whilom  I  used  (as  thou  right  well  dost  know) 
My  little  flock  on  western  downs  to  keep, 
Not  far  from  whence  Sabrina's  stream  doth  flow. 
And  flowery  banks  with  silver  liquor  steep  ; 
Nought  cared  I  then  for  worldly  change  or  chance, 
For  all  my  joy  was  on  my  gentle  sheep. 
And  to  my  pipe  to  carol  and  to  dance. 

"It  there  befel,  as  I  the  fields  did  range 
Fearless  and  free,  a  fair  young  Lioness, 
White  as  the  native  Rose  before  the  change 
Which  Venus  blood  did  in  her  leaves  impress, 
I  spied  playing  on  the  grassy  plain 
Her  youthful  sports  and  kindly  wantonness. 
That  did  all  other  Beasts  in  beauty  stain. 

•'  Much  was  I  moved  at  so  goodly  sight. 
Whose  like  before  mine  eye  had  seldom  seen. 
And  'gan  to  cast  how  I  her  compass  might, 
And  bring  to  hand  that  yet  had  never  been ; 
So  well  I  wrought  with  mildness  and  with  pain, 
That  I  her  caught  disporting  on  the  green. 
And  brought  away  fast  bound  with  silver  chain. 

"  And  afterwards  I  handled  her  so  fair. 
That  though  by  kind  she  stout  and  savage  were, 
For  being  born  an  ancient  Lion's  heir. 
And  of  the  race  that  all  wild  beasts  do  fear, 
Yet  I  her  framed,  and  won  so  to  my  bent. 
That  she  became  so  meek  and  mild  of  cheer, 
As  the  least  lamb  in  all  my  flock  that  went : 


SPENSER 

*'  For  she  in  field,  wherever  I  did  wend, 
Would  wend  with  me,  and  wait  by  me  all  day ; 
And  all  the  night  that  I  in  watch  did  spend, 
If  cause  required,  or  else  in  sleep,  if  nay, 
She  would  all  night  by  me  or  watch  or  sleep ; 
And  evermore  when  I  did  sleep  or  play, 
She  of  my  flock  would  take  full  wary  keep. 

*•  Safe  then,  and  safest  were  my  silly  sheep, 
Ne  feared  the  Wolf,  ne  feared  the  wildest  beast, 
All  were  I  drowned  in  careless,  quiet  deep ; 
My  lovely  Lioness  without  behest. 
So  careful  was  for  them,  and  for  my  good. 
That  when  I  waked,  neither  most  nor  least, 
I  found  miscarried  or  in  plain  or  wood. 

"  Oft  did  the  Shepherds  which  my  hap  did  hear, 
And  oft  their  lasses,  which  my  luck  envied, 
Daily  resort  to  me  from  far  and  near. 
To  see  my  Lioness,  whose  praises  wide 
Were  spread  abroad  ;  and  when  her  worthiness, 
Much  greater  than  the  rude  report  they  tried, 
They  her  did  praise,  and  my  good  fortune  bless. 

"  Long  thus  I  joyed  in  my  happiness. 
And  well  did  hope  my  joy  would  have  no  end ; 
But  oh,  fond  man  1  that  in  world's  fickleness 
Reposedst  hope,  or  weenedst  her  thy  friend 
That  glories  most  in  mortal  miseries. 
And  daily  doth  her  changeful  counsels  bend. 
To  make  new  matter  fit  for  Tragedies ; 

"  For  whilst  I  was  thus  without  dread  or  doubt, 
A  cruel  Satyr  with  his  murd'rous  dart, 
Greedy  of  mischief,  ranging  all  about. 
Gave  her  the  fatal  wound  of  deadly  smart, 
And  reft  from  me  my  sweet  companion, 
And  reft  from  me  my  love,  my  life,  my  heart : 
My  Lioness  (ah,  woe  is  me ! )  is  gone ! 


ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

"Out  of  the  world  thus  was  she  reft  away, 
Out  of  the  world,  unworthy  such  a  spoil, 
And  borne  to  heaven,  for  heaven  a  fitter  prey  ; 
Much  fitter  than  the  Lion,  which  with  toil 
Alcides  slew,  and  fixed  in  firmament ; 
Her  now  I  seek  throughout  this  earthly  soil. 
And  seeking  miss,  and  missing  do  lament." 
Therewith  he  'gan  afresh  to  wail  and  weep, 
That  I  for  pity  of  his  heavy  plight 
Could  not  abstain  mine  eyes  with  tears  to  steep ; 
But  when  I  saw  the  anguish  of  his  spright 
Some  deal  allayed,  I  him  bespake  again  ; 

*'  Certes,  Alcyon,  painful  is  thy  plight. 
That  it  in  me  breeds  almost  equal  pain. 

"  Yet  doth  not  my  dull  wit  well  understand 
The  riddle  of  thy  loved  Lioness ; 
For  rare  it  seems  in  reason  to  be  scanned, 
That  man,  who  doth  the  whole  world's  rule  possess, 
Should  to  a  beast  his  noble  heart  embase, 
And  be  the  vassal  of  his  vassaless ; 
Therefore  more  plain  aread  this  doubtful  case." 

Then  sighing  sore,  "  Daphne  thou  knew'st,"  quoth  he, 
"  She  now  is  dead"  ;  ne  more  endured  to  say, 
But  fell  to  ground  for  great  extremity ; 
That  I,  beholding  it,  with  deep  dismay 
Was  much  appalled,  and,  lightly  him  uprearing, 
Revoked  life,  that  would  have  fled  away. 
All  were  my  self,  through  grief,  in  deadly  drearing. 

Then  'gan  I  him  to  comfort  all  my  best, 

And  with  mild  counsel  strove  to  mitigate 

The  stormy  passion  of  his  troubled  breast, 

But  he  thereby  was  more  empassionate  ; 

As  stubborn  steed,  that  is  with  curb  restrained, 

Becomes  more  fierce  and  fervent  in  his  gait ; 

And,  breaking  forth  at  last,  thus  dearnly  *  plained : 

*  secretly,  sadly. 


I 


SPENSER 
I 

"  What  man  henceforth  that  breatheth  vital  air 
Will  honour  heaven,  or  heavenly  powers  adore, 
Which  so  unjustly  do  their  judgments  share 
'Mongst  earthly  wights,  as  to  afflict  so  sore 
The  innocent,  as  those  which  do  transgress. 
And  do  not  spare  the  best  or  fairest,  more 
Than  worst  or  foulest,  but  do  both  oppress? 

*'  If  this  be  right,  why  did  they  then  create 
The  world  so  fair,  sith  fairness  is  neglected? 
Or  why  be  they  themselves  immaculate. 
If  purest  things  be  not  by  them  respected  ? 
She  fair,  she  pure,  most  fair,  most  pure  she  was. 
Yet  was  by  them  as  thing  impure  rejected ; 
Yet  she  in  pureness  heaven  itself  did  pass. 

"  In  pureness  and  in  all  celestial  grace. 
That  men  admire  in  goodly  womankind. 
She  did  excel,  and  seemed  of  angels  race, 
Living  on  earth  like  angel  new  divinde,* 
Adorned  with  wisdom  and  with  chastity, 
And  all  the  dowries  of  a  noble  mind, 
Which  did  her  beauty  much  more  beautify. 

"  No  age  hath  bred  (since  fair  Astraea  left 
The  sinful  world)  more  virtue  in  a  wight ; 
And,  when  she  parted  hence,  with  her  she  reft 
Great  hope,  and  robbed  her  race  of  bounty  quite. 
Well  may  the  shepherd  lasses  now  lament ; 
For  double  loss  by  her  hath  on  them  light, 
To  lose  both  her  and  bounty's  ornament. 

"  Ne  let  Elisa,  royal  Shepherdess, 
The  praises  of  my  parted  love  envy. 
For  she  hath  praises  in  all  plenteousness 
Poured  upon  her,  like  showers  of  Castaly, 

*  deified. 


8  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

By  her  own  Shepherd,  Colin,  her  own  Shepherd, 
That  her  with  heavenly  hymns  doth  deify. 
Of  rustic  muse  full  hardly  to  be  bettered. 

"  She  is  the  Rose,  the  glory  of  the  day. 
And  mine  the  Primrose  in  the  lowly  shade : 
Mine,  ah !  not  mine ;  amiss  I  mine  did  say : 
Not  mine,  but  His,  which  mine  awhile  her  made ; 
Mine  to  be  His,  with  Him  to  live  for  aye. 
Oh  that  so  fair  a  flower  so  soon  should  fade. 
And  through  untimely  tempest  fall  away ! 

"  She  fell  away  in  her  first  age's  spring. 
Whilst  yet  her  leaf  was  green,  and  fresh  her  rind. 
And  whilst  her  branch  fair  blossoms  forth  did  bring. 
She  fell  away  against  all  course  of  kind. 
For  age  to  die  13  right,  but  youth  is  wrong ; 
She  fell  away  like  fruit  blown  down  with  winde. 
Weep,  Shepherd !  weep,  to  make  my  under-song. 

II 

"  What  heart  so  stony-hard  but  that  would  weep, 
And  pour  forth  fountains  of  incessant  tears  ? 
What  Timon  but  would  let  compassion  creep 
Into  his  breast,  and  pierce  his  frozen  ears? 
In  stead  of  tears,  whose  brackish  bitter  well, 
I  wasted  have,  my  heart-blood  dropping  wears. 
To  think  to  ground  how  that  fair  blossom  fell. 

"  Yet  fell  she  not  as  one  enforced  to  die, 
Ne  died  vnth  dread  and  grudging  discontent, 
But  as  one  toiled  with  travel  down  doth  lie, 
So  lay  she  down,  as  if  to  sleep  she  went, 
And  closed  her  eyes  wnth  careless  quietness ; 
The  whiles  soft  death  away  her  spirit  hent,* 
And  soul  assoiled  from  sinful  fleshliness. 

*  took. 


SPENSER  I 

"  Yet  ere  that  life  her  lodging  did  forsake, 
She,  all  resolved,  and  ready  to  remove, 
Calling  to  me  (ay  me  I)  this  wise  bespake ; 

'  Alcyon  !  ah,  my  first  and  latest  love  1 
Ah  1  vrhy  does  my  Alcyon  weep  and  mourn. 
And  grieve  ray  ghost,  that  ill  mote  him  behove, 
As  if  to  me  had  chanced  some  evil  turn ! 

"'I,  since  the  messenger  is  come  for  me, 
That  summons  souls  unto  the  bridal  feast 
Of  his  great  Lord,  must  needs  depart  from  thee, 
And  straight  obey  His  sovereign  behest ; 
Why  should  Alcyon  then  so  sore  lament 
That  I  from  misery  shall  be  released, 
And  freed  from  wretched  long  imprisonment ! 

"  *  Our  days  are  full  of  dolour  and  disease, 
Our  life  afflicted  with  incessant  pain. 
That  nought  on  earth  may  lessen  or  appease ; 
Why  then  should  I  desire  here  to  remain ! 
Or  why  should  he,  that  loves  me,  sorry  be 
For  my  deliverance,  or  at  all  complain 
My  good  to  hear,  and  toward  joys  to  see ! 

'"I  go,  and  long  desired  have  to  go; 
I  go  with  gladness  to  my  wished  rest. 
Whereas*  no  world's  sad  care,  nor  wasting  woe 
May  come  their  happy  quiet  to  molest; 
But  Saints  and  Angels  in  celestial  thrones 
Eternally  Him  praise  that  hath  them  blest ; 
There  shall  I  be  amongst  those  blessed  ones. 

'"Yet,  ere  I  go,  a  pledge  I  leave  with  thee 
Of  the  late  love  the  which  betwixt  us  passed, 
My  young  Ambrosia  ;  in  lieu  of  me, 
Love  her ;  so  shall  our  love  for  ever  last. 
Thus,  dear  I  adieu,  whom  I  expect  ere  long.' 
So  having  said,  away  she  softly  passed : 
Weep,  Shepherd !  weep,  to  make  mine  under-song. 

*  where. 


10  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

III 

"  So  oft  as  I  record  those  piercing  words, 
Which  yet  are  deep  engraven  in  my  breast, 
And  those  last  deadly  accents,  which  like  swords 
Did  wound  my  heart,  and  rend  my  bleeding  chest, 
With  those  sweet  sugared  speeches  do  compare. 
The  which  my  soul  first  conquered  and  possest, 
The  first  beginners  of  my  endless  care  ; 

"  And  when  those  pallid  cheeks  and  ashy  hue, 
In  which  sad  Death  his  portraiture  had  writ, 
And  when  those  hollow  eyes  and  deadly  view, 
On  which  the  cloud  of  ghastly  night  did  sit, 
I  match  with  that  sweet  smile  and  cheerful  brow, 
Which  all  the  world  subdued  unto  it. 
How  happy  was  I  then,  and  wretched  now ! 

"  How  happy  was  I  when  I  saw  her  lead 
The  Shepherds'  daughters  dancing  in  a  round  ! 
How  trimly  would  she  trace  and  softly  tread 
The  tender  grass,  with  rosy  garland  crowned ! 
And  when  she  list  advance  her  heavenly  voice, 
Both  Nymphs  and  Muses  nigh  she  made  astound, 
And  fiocks  and  shepherds  caused  to  rejoice. 

"  But  now,  ye  Shepherd  lasses  1  who  shall  lead 
Your  wandering  troops,  or  sing  your  virelayes  ?  * 
Or  who  shall  dight  your  bowers,  sith  she  is  dead 
That  was  the  Lady  of  your  holy-days? 
Let  now  your  bliss  be  turned  into  bale. 
And  into  plaints  convert  your  joyous  plays. 
And  with  the  same  fill  every  hill  and  dale. 

"  Let  Bagpipe  never  more  be  heard  to  shrill. 
That  may  allure  the  senses  to  delight, 
Ne  ever  Shepherd  sound  his  Oaten  quill 
Unto  the  many  that  provoke  them  might 

*  light  songs. 


SPENSER  II 

To  idle  pleasance  ;  but  let  ghastliness 
And  dreary  horrour  dim  the  cheerful  light, 
To  make  the  image  of  true  heaviness : 

"  Let  birds  be  silent  on  the  naked  spray, 
And  shady  woods  resound  with  dreadful  yells  ; 
Let  streaming  floods  their  hasty  courses  stay, 
And  parching  drought  dry  up  the  crystal  wells  ; 
Let  th'  earth  be  barren,  and  bring  forth  no  flowers, 
And  th'  air  be  filled  with  noise  of  doleful  knells. 
And  wandering  spirits  walk  untimely  hours. 

'•  And  Nature,  nurse  of  every  living  thing. 
Let  rest  herself  from  her  long  weariness, 
And  cease  henceforth  things  kindly  forth  to  bring, 
But  hideous  monsters  full  of  ugliness ; 
For  she  it  is  that  hath  me  done  this  wrong. 
No  nurse,  but  Stepdame,  cruel,  merciless. 
Weep,  Shepherd  1  weep,  to  make  my  under-song. 


IV 

"  My  little  flock,  whom  erst  I  loved  so  well, 
And  wont  to  feed  with  finest  grass  that  grew, 
Feed  ye  henceforth  on  bitter  Astrofel, 
And  stinking  Smallage,  and  unsavoury  Rue  ; 
And,     when    your    maws    are    with    those    weeds 

corrupted. 
Be  ye  the  prey  of  Wolves  ;  ne  will  I  rue 
That  with  your  carcases  wild  beasts  be  glutted. 

"  Ne  worse  to  you,  my  silly  sheep  !   I  pray, 
Ne  sorer  vengeance  wish  on  you  to  fall 
Than  to  myself,  for  whose  confused  decay 
To  careless  heavens  I  do  daily  call ; 
But  heavens  refuse  to  hear  a  wretch's  cry ; 
And  cruel  Death  doth  scorn  to  come  at  call, 
Or  grant  his  boon  that  most  desires  to  die. 


12  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

"  The  good  and  righteous  he  away  doth  take, 
To  plague  th'  unrighteous  which  alive  remain ; 
But  the  ungodly  ones  he  doth  forsake, 
By  living  long  to  multiply  their  pain  ; 
Else  surely  death  should  be  no  punishment, 
As  the  Great  Judge  at  first  did  it  ordain, 
But  rather  riddance  from  long  languishment. 

"  Therefore,  my  Daphne  they  have  ta'en  away ; 
For  worthy  of  a  better  place  was  she : 
But  me  unworthy  willed  here  to  stay. 
That  with  her  lack  I  might  tormented  be. 
Sith  then  they  so  have  ordered,  I  will  pay 
Penance  to  her,  according  their  decree, 
And  to  her  ghost  do  service  day  by  day. 

«•  For  I  will  walk  ti.is  wandering  pilgrimage, 
Throughout  the  world  from  one  to  other  end. 
And  in  affliction  waste  my  better  age  : 
My  bread  shall  be  the  anguish  of  my  mind, 
My  drink  the  tears  which  from  mine  eyes  do  rain. 
My  bed  the  ground  that  hardest  I  may  find  ; 
So  will  I  wilfully  increase  my  pain. 

"  And  she,  my  love  that  was,  my  Saint  that  is, 
When  she  beholds  from  her  celestial  throne 
(In  which  she  joyeth  in  eternal  bliss) 
My  bitter  penance,  will  my  case  bemoan, 
And  pity  me  that  living  thus  do  die  ; 
For  heavenly  spirits  have  compassion 
On  mortal  men,  and  rue  their  misery. 

•*So  when  I  have  with  sorrow  satisfied 
Th'  importune  fates,  which  vengeance  on  me  seek, 
And  th'  heavens  with  long  languour  pacified, 
She,  for  pure  pity  of  my  sufferance  meek, 
Will  send  for  me  ;  for  which  I  daily  long ; 
And  will  till  then  my  painful  penance  eke. 
Weep,  Shepherd !  weep,  to  make  my  under-song. 


SPENSER  13 

V 
"  Henceforth  I  hate  whatever  Nature  made, 
And  in  her  workmanship  no  pleasure  find, 
For  they  be  all  but  vain,  and  quickly  fade  ; 
So  soon  as  on  them  blows  the  Northern  wind, 
They  tarry  not,  but  flit  and  fall  away. 
Leaving  behind  them  nought  but  grief  of  mind. 
And  mocking  such  as  think  they  long  will  stay. 

"I  hate  the  heaven,  because  it  doth  withhold 
Me  from  my  love,  and  eke  my  love  from  me ; 
I  hate  the  earth,  because  it  is  the  mould 
Of  fleshly  slime  and  frail  mortality ; 
I  hate  the  fire,  because  to  nought  it  flies  ; 
I  hate  the  air,  because  sighs  of  it  be ; 
I  hate  the  sea,  because  it  tears  supplies. 

"  I  hate  the  day,  because  it  lendeth  light 
To  see  all  things,  and  not  my  love  to  see ; 
I  hate  the  darkness  and  the  dreary  night. 
Because  they  breed  sad  balefulness  in  me ; 
I  hate  all  times,  because  all  times  do  fly 
So  fast  away,  and  may  not  stayed  be. 
But  as  a  speedy  post  that  passeth  by. 

"  I  hate  to  speak,  my  voice  is  spent  with  crying ; 
I  hate  to  hear,  loud  plaints  have  dulled  mine  ears ; 
I  hate  to  taste,  for  food  withholds  my  dying ; 
I  hate  to  see,  mine  eyes  are  dimmed  with  tears  ; 
I  hate  to  smell,  no  sweet  on  earth  is  left ; 
I  hate  to  feel,  my  flesh  is  numbed  with  fears : 
So  all  my  senses  from  me  are  bereft. 

"  I  hate  all  men,  and  shun  all  womankind ; 
The  one,  because  as  I  they  wretched  are ; 
The  other,  for  because  I  do  not  find 
My  love  with  them,  that  wont  to  be  their  Star : 
And  life  I  hate,  because  it  will  not  last; 
And  death  I  hate,  because  it  life  doth  mar  ; 
And  all  I  hate  that  is  to  come  or  past. 


14  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

"  So  all  the  world,  and  all  in  it  I  hate, 
Because  it  changeth  ever  to  and  fro, 
And  never  standeth  in  one  certain  state, 
But  still  unstedfast,  round  about  doth  go 
Like  a  Mill-vyheel  in  midst  of  misery. 
Driven  with  streams  of  wretchedness  and  woe, 
That  dying  lives,  and  living  still  does  die. 

"So  do  I  live,  so  do  I  daily  die, 
And  pine  away  in  self-consuming  pain  I 
Sith  she  that  did  my  vital  powers  supply, 
And  feeble  spirits  in  their  force  maintain. 
Is  fetched  from  me,  why  seek  I  to  prolong 
My  weary  days  in  dolour  and  disdain? 
Weep,  Shepherd,  weep,  to  make  my  under-song. 

VI 

"  Why  do  I  longer  live  in  life's  despite, 
And  do  not  die  then  in  despite  of  death  ; 
Why  do  I  longer  see  this  loathsome  light, 
And  do  in  darkness  not  abridge  my  breath, 
Sith  all  my  sorrow  shall  have  end  thereby, 
And  cares  find  quiet!     Is  it  so  uneath 
To  leave  this  life,  or  dolorous  to  die? 

*•  To  live  I  find  it  deadly  dolorous. 
For  life  draws  care,  and  care  continual  woe  ; 
Therefore  to  die  must  needs  be  joyeous, 
And  wishful  thing  this  sad  life  to  forgo : 
But  I  must  stay ;   I  may  it  not  amend, 
My  Daphne  hence  departing  bade  me  so  ; 
She  bade  me  stay,  till  she  for  me  did  send. 

"Yet,  whilst  I  in  this  wretched  vale  do  stay 
My  weary  feet  shall  ever  wandering  be, 
That  still  I  may  be  ready  on  my  way 
When  as  her  messenger  doth  come  for  me ; 


SPENSER  15 

Ne  will  I  rest  my  feet  for  feebleness, 
Ne  will  I  rest  my  limbs  foi  frailty, 
Ne  will  I  rest  mine  eyes  for  heaviness. 

*'  But,  as  the  mother  of  the  Gods,  that  sought 
For  fair  Eurydice,  her  daughter  dear. 
Throughout  the  world,  with  woeful  heavy  thought ; 
So  will  I  travel  whilst  I  tarry  here, 
Ne  will  I  lodge,  ne  will  I  ever  lin,* 
Ne,  when  as  drooping  Titan  draweth  near 
To  loose  his  team,  will  I  take  up  my  Inn. 

"  Ne  sleep  (the  harbinger  of  weary  wights) 
Shall  ever  lodge  upon  mine  eyelids  more  ; 
Ne  shall  with  rest  refresh  my  fainting  sprites, 
Nor  failing  force  to  former  strength  restore  : 
But  I  will  wake  and  sorrow  all  the  night 
With  Philumene,  my  fortune  to  deplore ; 
With  Philumene,  the  partner  of  my  plight. 

"  And  ever  as  I  see  the  stars  to  fall. 
And  underground  to  go  to  give  them  light 
Which  dwell  in  darkness,  I  to  mind  will  call 
How  my  fair  Star  (that  shined  on  me  so  bright) 
Fell  suddenly,  and  faded  underground  ; 
Since  whose  departure,  day  is  turned  to  night. 
And  night  without  a  Venus  star  is  found. 

"  But  soon  as  day  doth  show  his  dewy  face. 
And  calls  forth  men  unto  their  toilsome  trade, 
I  will  withdraw  me  to  some  darksome  place. 
Or  some  deep  cave,  or  solitary  shade ; 
There  will  I  sigh,  and  sorrow  all  day  long, 
And  the  huge  burden  of  my  cares  unlade. 
Weep,  Shepherd !  weep,  to  make  my  under-song. 


i6  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

VII 

"  Henceforth  mine  eyes  shall  never  more  behold 
Fair  thing  on  earth,  ne  feed  on  false  delight 
Of  ought  that  framed  is  of  mortal  mould, 
Sith  that  my  fairest  flower  is  faded  quite ; 
For  all  I  see  is  vain  and  transitory, 
Ne  will  be  held  in  any  stedfast  plight, 
But  in  a  moment  lose  their  grace  and  glory. 

"And  ye  fond  men!  on  fortune's  wheel  that  ride, 
Or  in  ought  under  Heaven  repose  assurance. 
Be  it  riches,  beauty,  or  honour's  pride. 
Be  sure  that  they  shall  have  no  long  endurance. 
But  ere  ye  be  aware  will  flit  away ; 
For  nought  of  them  is  yours,  but  th'  only  usance 
Of  a  small  time,  which  none  ascertain  may. 

"And  ye,  true  Lovers!  whom  disastrous  chance 
Hath  far  exiled  from  your  Ladies'  grace, 
To  mourn  in  sorrow  and  sad  sufferance. 
When  ye  do  hear  me  in  that  desert  place 
Lamenting  loud  my  Daphne's  Elegy, 
Help  me  to  wail  my  miserable  case. 
And  when  life  parts  vouchsafe  to  close  mine  eye. 

"And  ye,  more  happy  Lovers!  which  enjoy 
The  presence  of  your  dearest  love's  delight, 
When  ye  do  hear  my  sorrowful  annoy. 
Yet  pity  me  in  your  empassioned  sprite, 
And  think  that  such  mishap,  as  chanced  to  me. 
May  happen  unto  the  most  happiest  wight ; 
For  all  men's  states  alike  unstedfast  be. 

"And  ye,  my  fellow  Shepherds!  which  do  feed 
Your  careless  flocks  on  hills  and  open  plains. 
With  better  fortune  than  did  me  succeed. 
Remember  yet  my  undeserved  pains ; 


SPENSER  17 

And,  when  ye  hear  that  I  am  dead  or  slain, 
Lament  my  lot,  and  tell  your  fellow-swains, 
That  sad  Alcyon  died  in  life's  disdain. 

"And  ye,  fair  Damsels!  Shepherds'  dear  delights, 
That  with  your  loves  do  their  rude  hearts  possess, 
When  as  my  hearse  shall  happen  to  your  sights, 
Vouchsafe  to  deck  the  same  with  Cyparesse ; 
And  ever  sprinkle  brackish  tears  among, 
In  pity  of  my  undeserved  distress, 
The  which,  I,  wretch,  endured  have  thus  long. 

"And  ye,  poor  Pilgrims!  that  with  restless  toil 
Weary  yourselves  in  wandring  desert  ways, 
Till  that  you  come  where  ye  your  vows  assoil,  * 
When  passing  by  ye  read  these  woeful  lays, 
On  my  grave  written,  rue  my  Daphne's  wrong, 
And  mourn  for  me  that  languish  out  my  days. 
Cease,  Shepherd!  cease,  and  end  thy  under-song." 

Thus  when  he  ended  had  his  heavy  plaint. 

The  heaviest  plaint  that  ever  I  heard  sound, 

His  cheeks  waxed  pale,  and  sprites  began  to  faint, 

As  if  again  he  would  have  fallen  to  ground ; 

Which,  when  I  saw,  I  (stepping  to  him  light) 

Amoved  him  out  of  his  stony  swound. 

And  'gan  him  to  re-comfort  as  I  might 

But  he  no  way  re-comforted  would  be. 

Nor  suffer  solace  to  approach  him  nigh, 

But  casting  up  a  'sdainful  eye  at  me. 

That  in  his  trance  I  would  not  let  him  lie. 

Did  rend  his  hair,  and  beat  his  blubbered  face, 

As  one  disposed  wilfully  to  die. 

That  I  sore  grieved  to  see  his  wretched  case. 


pay. 

B 


i8  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Tho*  when  the  pang  was  somewhat  overpassed, 

And  the  outrageous  passion  nigh  appeased, 

I  him  desired  sith  day  was  overcast, 

And  dark  night  fast  approached,  to  be  pleased 

To  turn  aside  unto  my  Cabinet, 

And  stay  with  me,  till  he  were  better  eased 

Of  that  strong  stound  which  him  so  sore  beset. 

But  by  no  means  I  could  him  win  thereto, 
Ne  longer  him  intreat  with  me  to  stay. 
But  without  taking  leave  he  forth  did  go 
With  staggering  pace  and  dismal  looks'  dismay. 
As  if  that  death  he  in  the  face  had  seen. 
Or  hellish  hags  had  met  upon  the  way ; 
But  what  of  him  became  I  cannot  ween. 

Edmund  Spenser, 
^  1552-1598. 

A  FUNERAL  ELEGY 

[From  ^^  An  Atiatoviy  of  the  world;  Wherein,  by  occasion  of 
the  untimely  death  of  I\Trs  Elizabeth  Drury,  the  frailty  and 
the  decay  of  this  whole  world  is  rcf?-esented" ;  with  the 
^*  First  Anjtiversaty"  of  which,  it  was  first  published  in 
16 1 1.  The  Second  Anniversary  was  added  to  the  second 
edition  of  1612. '\ 

'Tis  loss  to  trust  a  tomb  vdth  such  a  guest, 

Or  to  confine  her  in  a  marble  chest. 

Alas !  what 's  marble,  jet,  or  porphyry. 

Prized  with  the  chrysolite  of  either  eye. 

Or  with  those  pearls  and  rubies  which  she  was? 

Join  the  two  Indies  in  one  tomb,  'tis  glass ; 

And  so  is  all,  to  her  materials. 

Though  every  inch  were  ten  Escurials ; 

Yet  she 's  demolished ;  can  we  keep  her  then 

In  works  of  hands,  or  of  the  wits  of  men? 

Can  these  memorials,  rags  of  paper,  give 

Life  to  that  name,  by  which  name  they  must  live? 

*  then. 


DONNE  19 

Sickly,  alas !  short  lived,  abortive  be 
Those  carcase  verses,  whose  soul  is  not  she  ; 
And  can  she,  who  no  longer  would  be  she. 
Being  such  a  tabernacle  stoop  to  be 
In  paper  wrapped :  or  when  she  would  not  lie 
In  such  a  house,  dwell  in  an  elegy  ? 
But  'tis  no  matter  :  we  may  well  allow 
Verse  to  live  so  long  as  the  world  will  now. 
For  her  death  wounded  it.     The  world  contains 
Princes  for  arms  and  counsellors  for  brains, 
Lawyers  for  tongues,  divines  for  hearts,  and  more, 
The  rich  for  stomachs,  and  for  backs  the  poor ; 
The  officers  for  hands,  merchants  for  feet. 
By  which  remote  and  distant  countries  meet : 
But  those  fine  spirits,  which  do  tune  and  set 
This  organ,  are  those  pieces  which  beget 
Wonder  and  love ;  and  these  were  she :  and  she 
Being  spent,  the  world  must  needs  decrepit  be. 
For  since  death  will  proceed  to  triumph  still. 
He  can  find  nothing,  after  her,  to  kill, 
Except  the  world  itself,  so  great  as  she. 
Thus  brave  and  confident  may  nature  be. 
Death  cannot  give  her  such  another  blow, 
Because  she  cannot  such  another  show. 
But  must  we  say  she's  dead?  may't  not  be  said, 
That  as  a  sundered  clock  is  piecemeal  laid, 
Not  to  be  lost,  but  by  the  maker's  hand 
Repolished  without  error  then  to  stand, 
Or  as  the  Afric  Niger  stream  enwombs 
Itself  into  the  earth,  and  after  comes 
—Having  first  made  a  natural  bridge,  to  pass 
For  many  leagues— far  greater  than  it  was, 
May't  not  be  said,  that  her  grave  shall  restore 
Her,  greater,  purer,  firmer  than  before? 
Heaven  may  say  this,  and  joy  in  't  but  can  we 
Who  live,  and  lack  her  here,  this  vantage  see? 
What  is 't  to  us,  alas !  if  there  have  been 
An  angel  made,  a  throne,  or  cherubin? 


20  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

We  lose  by 't :  and  as  aged  men  are  glad 

Being  tasteless  grown,  to  joy  in  joys  they  had, 

So  now  the  sick,  starved  world  must  feed  upon 

This  joy,  that  we  had  her,  who  now  is  gone. 

Rejoice,  then,  nature,  and  this  world,  that  you, 

Fearing  the  last  fires  hastening  to  subdue 

Your  force  and  vigour,  ere  it  were  near  gone. 

Wisely  bestowed  and  laid  it  all  on  one ; 

One,  whose  clear  body  was  so  pure  and  thin. 

Because  it  need  disguise  no  thought  within ; 

'Twas  but  a  through-light  scarf  her  mind  to  enroll, 

Or  exhalation  breathed  out  from  her  soul ; 

One  whom  all  men,  who  durst  no  more,  admired ; 

And  whom,  whoe'er  had  worth  enough,  desired ; 

As  when  a  temple 's  built  saints  emulate 

To  which  of  them  it  shall  be  consecrate. 

But  as,  when  heaven  looks  on  us  with  new  eyes, 

Those  new  stars  every  artist  exercise ; 

What  place  they  should  assign  to  them  they  doubt, 

Argue,  and  agree  not,  till  those  stars  go  out ; 

So  the  world  studied  whose  this  piece  should  be, 

Till  she  can  be  nobody's  else,  nor  she ; 

But  like  a  lump  of  balsamum,  desired 

Rather  to  adorn  than  last,  she  soon  expired. 

Clothed  in  her  virgin  white  integrity 

— For  marriage,  though  it  doth  not  stain,  doth  dye — 

To  escape  the  infirmities  which  wait  upon 

Woman,  she  went  away  before  she  was  one ; 

And  the  world's  busy  noise  to  overcome. 

Took  so  much  death  as  served  for  opium ; 

For  though  she  could  not,  nor  could  choose  to  die, 

She  hath  yielded  to  too  long  an  ecstacy. 

He  which,  not  knowing  her  sad  history. 

Should  come  to  read  the  book  of  destiny. 

How  fair,  and  chaste,  humble  and  high  she'd  been 

Much  promised,  much  performed,  at  not  fifteen. 

And  measuring  future  things  by  things  before. 

Should  turn  the  leaf  to  read,  and  read  no  more. 


J 


JONSON  21 

Would  think  that  either  destiny  mistook, 

Or  that  some  leaves  were  torn  out  of  the  book. 

But  'tis  not  so  :  fate  did  but  usher  her 

To  years  of  reason's  use,  and  then  infer 

Her  destiny  to  herself,  which  liberty 

She  took,  but  for  thus  much,  thus  much  to  die. 

Her  modesty  not  suffering  her  to  be 

Fellow-commissioner  with  destiny. 

She  did  no  more  but  die :  if  after  her 

Any  shall  live,  which  dare  true  good  prefer. 

Every  such  person  is  her  delegate, 

To  accomplish  that  which  should  have  been  her  fate. 

They  shall  make  up  that  book  and  shall  have  thanks 

Of  fate,  and  her,  for  filling  up  their  blanks ; 

For  future  virtuous  deeds  are  legacies 

Which  from  the  gift  of  her  example  rise ; 

And  'tis  in  heaven  part  of  spiritual  mirth, 

To  see  how  well  the  good  play  her,  on  earth. 

John  Donne, 
1573-1631, 
¥ 

ELEGY 

On  my  Muse  the  truly  honoured  Lady,  the  Lady  Venetia 
Digby ;  who  living,  gave  me  leave  to  call  her  so. 
Being  her  diroeewcris,  or  Relation  to  the  Saints. 

[From  "  Eupheme  or  the  Fair  Fame  left  to  Posterity  of  that  Truly 
noble  Lady  the  Lady  Venetia  Digby,  Late  Wife  of  Sir 
Kenelme  Digby  ^  1^711. ,"  of  which  it  is  Fart  /Z.*] 

'Twere  time  that  I  died  too,  now  she  is  dead, 
Who  was  my  Muse,  and  life  of  all  I  said ; 
The  spirit  that  I  wrote  with,  and  conceived  : 
All  that  was  good,  or  great  with  me,  she  weaved. 


*  From  "  Underwoods  :  consisting  of  Divers  Poems,"  1641, 
part  of  the  second  folio  edition. 


22  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

And  set  it  forth;  the  rest  were  cobwebs  fine, 

Spun  out  in  name  of  some  of  the  old  Nine, 

To  hang  a  window,  or  make  dark  the  room. 

Till  swept  away,  they  were  cancelled  with  a  broom ! 

Nothing  that  could  remain,  or  yet  can  stir 

A  sorrow  in  me,  fit  to  wait  to  her  1 

O !  had  I  seen  her  laid  out  a  fair  corse, 

By  death,  on  earth,  I  should  have  had  remorse 

On  Nature  for  her  :  who  did  let  her  lie. 

And  saw  that  portion  of  herself  to  die. 

Sleepy  or  stupid  Nature,  couldst  thou  part 

With  such  a  rarity,  and  not  rouse  Art, 

With  all  her  aids,  to  save  her  from  the  seize 

Of  vulture  Death,  and  those  relentless  cleis*  ? 

Thou  wouldst  have  lost  the  Phoenix,  had  the  kind 

Been  trusted  to  thee ;  not  to  itself  assigned. 

Look  on  thy  sloth,  and  give  thyself  undone, 

(For  so  thou  art  with  me)  now  she  is  gone  : 

My  wounded  mind  cannot  sustain  this  stroke. 

It  rages,  runs,  flies,  stands,  and  would  provoke 

The  world  to  ruin  with  it;  in  her  fall, 

I  sum  up  mine  own  breaking,  and  wish  all. 

Thou  hast  no  more  blows.  Fate,  to  drive  at  one ; 

What's  left  a  poet,  when  his  Muse  is  gone? 

Sure  I  am  dead  and  know  it  not !    I  feel 

Nothing  I  do ;  but  like  a  heavy  wheel, 

Am  turned  with  another's  powers  :  my  passion 

Whirls  me  about,  and,  to  blaspheme  in  fashion, 

I  murmur  against  God,  for  having  ta'en 

Her  blessed  soul  hence,  forth  this  valley  vain 

Of  tears,  and  dungeon  of  calamity ! 

I  envy  it  the  angels  amity. 

The  joy  of  saints,  the  crown  for  which  it  lives, 

The  glory  and  gain  of  rest,  which  the  place  gives  I 

Dare  I  profane  so  irreligious  be. 
To  greet  or  grieve  her  soft  euthanasy ! 

*  claws. 


JONSON  23 

So  sweetly  taken  to  the  court  of  bliss 

As  spirits  had  stolen  her  spirit  in  a  kiss, 

From  off  her  pillow  and  deluded  bed  ; 

And  left  her  lovely  body  unthought  dead  1 

Indeed  she  is  not  dead !  but  laid  to  sleep 

In  earth,  till  the  last  trump  awake  the  sheep 

And  goats  together,  whither  they  must  come 

To  hear  their  judge,  and  his  eternal  doom ; 

To  have  that  final  retribution, 

Expected  with  the  flesh's  restitution. 

For,  as  there  are  three  natures,  schoolmen  call 

One  corporal  only,  the  other  spiritual. 

Like  single ;  so  there  is  a  third  commixt, 

Of  body  and  spirit  together,  placed  betwixt 

Those  other  two ;  which  must  be  judged  or  crowned : 

This,  as  it  guilty  is,  or  guiltless  found. 

Must  come  to  take  a  sentence,  by  the  sense 

Of  that  great  evidence,  the  Conscience, 

Who  will  be  there,  against  that  day  prepared. 

To  accuse  or  quit  all  parties  be  heard ! 

O  day  of  joy,  and  surety  to  the  just. 

Who  in  that  feast  of  resurrection  trust ! 

That  great  eternal  holy  day  of  rest 

To  body  and  soul,  where  love  is  all  the  guest  1 

And  the  whole  banquet  is  full  sight  of  God, 

Of  joy  the  circle,  and  sole  period  ! 

All  other  gladness  with  the  thought  is  barred ; 

Hope  hath  her  end,  and  Faith  hath  her  reward  1 

This  being  thus,  why  should  my  tongue  or  pen 
Presume  to  interpel  that  fulness,  when 
Nothing  can  more  adorn  it  than  the  seat 
That  she  is  in,  or  make  it  more  complete? 
Better  be  dumb  than  superstitious : 
Who  violates  the  Godhead  is  most  vicious 
Against  the  nature  he  would  worship.     He 
Will  honoured  be  in  all  simplicity. 
Have  all  his  actions  wondered  at,  and  viewed 
With  silence  and  amazement ;  not  with  rude, 


24  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Dull  and  profane,  weak  and  imperfect  eyes, 

Have  busy  search  made  in  his  mysteries ! 

He  knows  what  work  he  hath  done,  to  call  this  guest, 

Out  of  her  noble  body  to  this  feast : 

And  give  her  place  according  to  her  blood 

Amongst  her  peers,  those  princes  of  all  good ! 

Saints,  Martyrs,  Prophets,  with  those  Hierarchies, 

Angels,  Arch-angels,  Principalities, 

The  Dominations,  Virtues,  and  the  Powers, 

The  Thrones,  the  Cherubs,  and  Seraphic  bowers. 

That,  planted  round,  there  sing  before  the  Lamb 

A  new  song  to  his  praise,  and  great  I  AM : 

And  she  doth  know,  out  of  the  shade  of  death. 

What  'tis  to  enjoy  an  everlasting  breath ! 

To  have  her  captived  spirit  freed  from  flesh, 

And  on  her  innocence,  a  garment  fresh 

And  white  as  that  put  on  :  and  in  her  hand 

With  boughs  of  palm,  a  crowned  victrice  stand  I 

And  will  you,  worthy  son,  sir,  knovnng  this, 
Put  black  and  mourning  on  ?  and  say  you  miss 
A  wife,  a  friend,  a  lady,  or  a  love  ; 
Whom  her  Redeemer  honoured  hath  above 
Her  fellows,  with  the  oil  of  gladness,  bright 
In  heaven's  empire,  and  with  a  robe  of  light  ? 
Thither  you  hope  to  come ;  and  there  to  find 
That  pure,  that  precious,  and  exalted  mind 
You  once  enjoyed  :  a  short  space  severs  ye, 
Compared  unto  that  long  eternity. 
That  shall  rejoin  ye.     Was  she,  then,  so  dear. 
When  she  departed  ?  you  will  meet  her  there. 
Much  more  desired,  and  dearer  than  before. 
By  all  the  wealth  of  blessings,  and  the  store 
Accumulated  on  her,  by  the  Lord 
Of  life  and  Hght,  the  son  of  God,  the  Word ! 

There  all  the  happy  souls  that  ever  were, 
Shall  meet  with  gladness  in  one  theatre ; 
And  each  shall  know  there  one  another's  face, 
By  beatific  virtue  of  the  place. 


JONSON  25 

There  shall  the  brother  with  the  sister  walk, 

And  sons  and  daughters  with  their  parents  talk  ; 

But  all  of  God ;  they  still  shall  have  to  say, 

But  make  him  All  in  All,  their  Theme,  that  day ; 

That  happy  day  that  never  shall  see  night ! 

Where  he  will  be  all  beauty  to  the  sight ; 

Wine  or  deUcious  fruits  unto  the  taste ; 

A  music  in  the  ears  will  ever  last ; 

Unto  the  scent,  a  spicery  or  balm  ; 

And  to  the  touch,  a  flower  like  soft  as  palm. 

He  will  all  glory,  all  perfection  be, 

God  in  the  Union,  and  the  Trinity ! 

That  holy,  great  and  glorious  mystery. 

Will  there  revealed  be  in  majesty ! 

By  light  and  comfort  of  spiritual  grace : 

The  vision  of  our  Saviour  face  to  face 

In  his  humanity!  to  hear  him  preach 

The  price  of  our  redemption,  and  to  teach 

Through  his  inherent  righteousness,  in  death, 

The  safety  of  our  souls,  and  forfeit  breath  ! 

What  fulness  of  beatitude  is  here  ? 
What  love  with  mercy  mixed  doth  appear. 
To  style  us  friends,  who  were  by  nature  foes? 
Adopt  us  heirs  by  grace,  who  were  of  those 
Had  lost  ourselves,  and  prodigally  spent 
Our  native  portions,  and  possessed  rent  ? 
Yet  have  all  debts  forgiven  us,  and  advance 
By  imputed  right  to  an  inheritance 
In  his  eternal  kingdom,  where  we  sit 
Equal  with  angels,  and  co-heirs  of  it. 
Nor  dare  we  under  blasphemy  conceive 
He  that  shall  be  our  supreme  judge,  shall  leave 
Himself  so  uninformed  of  his  elect. 
Who  knows  the  hearts  of  all,  and  can  dissect 
The  smallest  fibre  of  our  flesh  ;  he  can 
Find  all  our  atoms  from  a  point  to  a  span : 
Our  closest  creeks  and  corners,  and  can  trace 
Each  line,  as  it  were  graphic,  in  the  face. 


26  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

And  best  he  knew  her  noble  character, 

For  'twas  himself  who  formed  and  gave  it  her. 

And  to  that  form  lent  two  such  veins  of  blood, 

As  nature  could  not  more  increase  the  flood 

Of  title  in  her  1  all  nobility 

But  pride,  that  schism  of  incivility, 

She  had,  and  it  became  her !  she  was  fit 

To  have  known  no  envy,  but  by  suffering  it ! 

She  had  a  mind  as  calm  as  she  was  fair ; 

Not  tossed  or  troubled  with  light  lady-air, 

But  kept  an  even  gait,  as  some  straight  tree 

Moved  by  the  wind,  so  comely  moved  she. 

And  by  the  awful  manage  of  her  eye. 

She  swayed  all  business  in  the  family. 

To  one  she  said,  do  this,  he  did  it ;  so 

To  another,  move,  he  went ;  to  a  third,  go, 

He  ran ;  and  all  did  strive  with  diligence 

To  obey,  and  serve  her  sweet  commandements. 

She  was  in  one  a  many  parts  of  life  ; 
A  tender  mother,  a  discreeter  wife, 
A  solemn  mistress,  and  so  good  a  friend, 
So  charitable  to  religious  end 
In  all  her  petite  actions,  so  devote. 
As  her  whole  life  was  now  become  one  note 
Of  piety  and  private  holiness. 
She  spent  more  time  in  tears  herself  to  dress 
For  her  devotions,  and  those  sad  essays 
Of  sorrow,  than  all  pomp  of  gaudy  days  ; 
And  came  forth  ever  cheered  with  the  rod 
Of  divine  comfort,  when  she  had  talked  with  God. 
Her  broken  sighs  did  never  miss  whole  sense  ; 
Nor  can  the  bruised  heart  want  eloquence : 
For  prayer  is  the  incense  most  perfumes 
The  holy  altars,  when  it  least  presumes. 
And  hers  were  all  humility !  they  beat 
The  door  of  grace,  and  found  the  mercy-seat. 
In  frequent  speaking  by  the  pious  psalms 
Her  solemn  hours  she  spent,  or  giving  alms, 


JONSON  27 

Or  doing  other  deeds  of  charity, 

To  clothe  the  naked,  feed  the  hungry.     She 

Would  sit  in  an  infirmary  whole  days 

Poring,  as  on  a  map,  to  find  the  ways 

To  that  eternal  rest,  where  now  she  hath  place 

By  sure  election  and  predestined  grace ! 

She  saw  her  Saviour,  by  an  early  light, 

Incarnate  in  the  manger,  shining  bright 

On  all  the  world !  she  saw  him  on  the  cross 

Suff'ring  and  dying  to  redeem  our  loss : 

She  saw  him  rise  triumphing  over  death, 

To  justify  and  quicken  us  in  breath  ; 

She  saw  him  too  in  glory  to  ascend 

For  his  designed  work  the  perfect  end 

Of  raising,  judging  and  rewarding  all 

The  kind  of  man,  on  whom  his  doom  should  fall ! 

All  this  by  faith  she  saw,  and  framed  a  plea, 
In  manner  of  a  daily  apostrophe. 
To  him  should  be  her  judge,  true  God,  true  Man, 
Jesus,  the  only-gotten  Christ !  who  can. 
As  being  redeemer  and  repairer  too 
Of  lapsed  nature,  best  know  what  to  do. 
In  that  great  act  of  judgment,  which  the  father 
Hath  given  wholly  to  the  son  (the  rather 
As  being  the  son  of  man)  to  show  his  power, 
His  wisdom,  and  his  justice,  in  that  hour. 
The  last  of  hours,  and  shutter  up  of  all ; 
Where  first  his  power  will  appear,  by  call 
Of  all  are  dead  to  life  ;  his  wisdom  show 
In  the  discerning  of  each  conscience  so ; 
And  most  his  justice,  in  the  fitting  parts. 
And  giving  dues  to  all  mankind's  deserts ! 

In  this  sweet  ecstasy  she  was  rapt  hence. 
Who  reads,  will  pardon  my  intelligence. 
That  thus  have  ventured  these  true  strains  upon, 
To  publish  her  a  saint.     MY  MUSE  IS  GONE! 

Ben  Jonsoa, 
1573  ?-1637. 


28  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

To 

The  Pious  Memory 

Of  the  Accomplished  Young  Lady, 

Mrs.  ANNE  KILLIGREW, 

Excellent  in 

The  Two  Sister  Arts 

of 
Poesy  and  Painting, 

An  Ode. 

{First  p7inted  in  ^' Poems  by  Mrs  Anne  Killigrew,  l686."] 

Thou  youngest  virgin-daughter  of  the  skies, 

Made  in  the  last  promotion  of  the  blest ; 
Whose  palms,  new  plucked  from  paradise, 
In  spreading  branches  more  sublimely  rise. 

Rich  with  immortal  green  above  the  rest ; 
Whether,  adopted  to  some  neighbouring  star. 
Thou  roU'st  above  us  in  thy  wandering  race. 
Or,  in  procession  fixed  and  regular, 
Mov'st  with  the  heaven's  majestic  pace ; 
Or,  called  to  more  superior  bliss. 
Thou  tread'st  with  seraphims  the  vast  abyss: 
Whatever  happy  region  is  thy  place, 
Cease  thy  celestial  song  a  little  space ; 
Thou  wilt  have  time  enough  for  hymns  divine, 

Since  Heaven's  eternal  year  is  thine. 
Hear,  then,  a  mortal  muse  thy  praise  rehearse. 

In  no  ignoble  verse ; 
But  such  as  thy  own  voice  did  practise  here. 
When  thy  first  fruits  of  poesy  were  given. 
To  make  thyself  a  welcome  inmate  there ; 
While  yet  a  young  probationer, 
And  candidate  of  heaven. 


DRYDEN  29 


II 


If  by  traduction  came  thy  mind, 

Our  wonder  is  the  less  to  find 
A  soul  so  charming  from  a  stock  so  good  ; 
Thy  father  was  transfused  into  thy  blood: 
So  wert  thou  born  into  a  tuneful  strain, 
An  early,  rich,  and  inexhausted  vein. 

But  if  thy  pre-existing  soul 

Was  formed,  at  first,  with  myriads  more, 
It  did  through  all  the  mighty  poets  roll, 

Who  Greek  or  Latin  laurels  wore. 
And  was  that  Sappho  last,  which  once  it  was  before. 

If  so,  then  cease  thy  flight,  O  heaven-born  mind  ! 

Thou  hast  no  dross  to  purge  from  thy  rich  ore  : 

Nor  can  thy  soul  a  fairer  mansion  find. 

Than  was  the  beauteous  frame  she  left  behind : 
Return  to  fill  or  mend  the  choir  of  thy  celestial  kind. 

Ill 

May  we  presume  to  say,  that,  at  thy  birth. 
New  joy   was   sprung   in   Heaven,  as  well  as  here  on 

earth? 
For  sure  the  milder  planets  did  combine 
On  thy  auspicious  horoscope  to  shine, 
And  e'en  the  most  malicious  were  in  trine. 
Thy  brother-angels  at  thy  birth 

Strung  each  his  lyre,  and  tuned  it  high, 

That  all  the  people  of  the  sky 
Might  know  a  poetess  was  born  on  earth ; 

And  then,  if  ever,  mortal  ears 
Had  heard  the  music  of  the  spheres. 
And  if  no  clustering  swarm  of  bees 
On  thy  sweet  mouth  distilled  their  golden  dew, 

'Twas  that  such  vulgar  miracles 

Heaven  had  not  leisure  to  renew : 
For  all  the  blest  fraternity  of  love 
Solemnised  there  thy  birth,  and  kept  thy  holiday  above. 


30  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

IV 

O  gracious  God !  how  far  have  we 
Profaned  thy  heavenly  gift  of  poesy  ? 
Made  prostitute  and  profligate  the  muse, 
Debased  to  each  obscene  and  impious  use, 
Whose  harmony  was  first  ordained  above 
For  tongues  of  angels,  and  for  hymns  of  love? 
O  wretched  we !  why  were  we  hurried  down 

This  lubrique  and  adulterate  age, 
(Nay,  added  fat  pollutions  of  our  own) 

T'  increase  the  steaming  ordures  of  the  stage? 
What  can  we  say  t'  excuse  our  second  fall? 
Let  this  thy  vestal,  heaven,  atone  for  all : 
Her  Arethusian  stream  remains  unsoiled. 
Unmixed  with  foreign  filth,  and  undefiled ; 
Her  wit  was  more  thi-'n  man,  her  innocence  a  child. 


V 

Art  she  had  none,  yet  wanted  none ; 

For  Nature  did  that  want  supply : 

So  rich  in  treasures  of  her  own, 

She  might  our  boasted  stores  defy : 
Such  noble  vigour  did  her  verse  adorn, 
That  it  seemed  borrowed  where  'twas  only  born. 
Her  morals,  too,  were  in  her  bosom  bred, 

By  gjeat  examples  daily  fed, 
What  in  the  best  of  books,  her  father's  life,  she  read : 
And  to  be  read  herself  she  need  not  fear ; 
Each  test,  and  every  light,  her  muse  will  bear. 
Though  Epictetus  with  his  lamp  were  there. 
E'en  love  (for  love  sometimes  her  muse  exprest) 
Was  but  a  lambent  flame  which  played  about  her  breast ; 
Light  as  the  vapours  of  a  morning  dream. 
So  cold  herself,  whilst  she  such  warmth  exprest, 
'Twas  Cupid  bathing  in  Diana's  stream. 


DRYDEN  31 

VI 

Born  to  the  spacious  empire  of  the  Nine, 

One  would  have  thought  she  should  have  been  content 

To  manage  well  that  mighty  government ; 

But  what  can  young  ambitious  souls  confine? 

To  the  next  realm  she  stretched  her  sway, 

For  Painture  near  adjoining  lay, 
A  plenteous  province,  and  alluring  prey. 

A  chamber  of  dependencies  was  framed, 
(As  conquerers  will  never  want  pretence. 
When  armed,  to  justify  the  offence,) 
And  the  whole  fief,  in  right  of  poetry,  she  claimed. 
The  country  open  lay  without  defence ; 
For  poets  frequent  inroads  there  had  made. 

And  perfectly  could  represent 

The  shape,  the  face,  with  every  lineament. 
And   all    the   large    domains    which    the    Dumb    Sister 
swayed ; 

All  bowed  beneath  her  government. 

Received  in  triumph  wheresoe'er  she  went. 
Her  pencil  drew  whate'er  her  soul  designed. 
And  oft  the  happy  draught  surpassed  the  image  in  her  mind. 

The  sylvan  scenes  of  herds  and  flocks. 

And  fruitful  plains  and  barren  rocks. 

Of  shallow  brooks  that  flowed  so  clear. 

The  bottom  did  the  top  appear ; 

Of  deeper  too  and  ampler  floods. 

Which,  as  in  mirrors,  showed  the  woods  ; 

Of  lofty  trees,  with  sacred  shades, 

And  perspectives  of  pleasant  glades. 

Where  nymphs  of  brightest  form  appear. 

And  shaggy  satyrs  standing  near. 

Which  them  at  once  admire  and  fear. 

The  ruins,  too,  of  some  majestic  piece. 

Boasting  the  power  of  ancient  Rome  or  Greece, 

Whose  statues,  friezes,  columns,  broken  lie. 

And,  though  defaced,  the  wonder  of  the  eye ; 


32  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

What  nature,  art,  bold  fiction,  e'er  durst  frame. 
Her  forming  hand  gave  feature  to  the  name. 
So  strange  a  concourse  ne'er  was  seen  before, 
But  when  the  peopled  ark  the  whole  creation  bore. 


VII 

The  scene  then  changed ;  with  bold  erected  look 
Our  martial  king  the  sight  with  reverence  strook : 
For,  not  content  to  express  his  outward  part. 
Her  hand  called  out  the  image  of  his  heart : 
His  warlike  mind,  his  soul  devoid  of  fear, 
His  high-designing  thoughts  were  figured  there. 
As  when,  by  magic,  ghosts  are  made  appear. 

Our  phcenix-queen  was  pourtrayed  too  so  bright, 
Beauty  alone  could  beauty  take  so  right : 
Her  dress,  her  shape,  her  matchless  grace, 
Were  all  observed,  as  well  as  heavenly  face. 
With  such  a  peerless  majesty  she  stands. 
As  in  that  day  she  took  the  crown  from  sacred  hands 
Before  a  train  of  heroines  was  seen. 
In  beauty  foremost,  as  in  rank,  the  queen. 

Thus  nothing  to  her  genius  was  denied. 
But  like  a  ball  of  fire  the  further  thrown, 

Still  with  a  greater  blaze  she  shone. 
And  her  bright  soul  broke  out  on  every  side. 
What  next  she  had  designed,  Heaven  only  knows : 
To  such  immoderate  growth  her  conquest  rose, 
That  fate  alone  its  progress  could  oppose. 


VIII 

Now  all  those  charms,  that  blooming  grace. 
The  well-proportioned  shape,  and  beauteous  face. 
Shall  never  more  be  seen  by  mortal  eyes ; 
In  earth  the  much -lamented  virgin  lies. 


DRYDEN  33 

Not  wit,  nor  piety,  could  fate  prevent ; 

Nor  was  the  cruel  destiny  content 

To  finish  all  the  murder  at  a  blow, 

To  sweep  at  once  her  life  and  beauty  too ; 
But,  like  a  hardened  felon,  took  a  pride 

To  work  more  mischievously  slow, 

And  plundered  first,  and  then  destroyed. 
O  double  sacrilege  on  things  divine, 
To  rob  the  relic,  and  deface  the  shrine ! 

But  thus  Orinda  died  ; 


IX 

Heaven,  by  the  same  disease,  did  both  translate ; 
As  equal  were  their  souls,  so  equal  was  their  fate. 
Meantime,  her  warlike  brother  on  the  seas 
His  waving  streamers  to  the  winds  displays. 
And  vows  for  his  return,  with  vain  devotion,  pays. 
Ah,  generous  youth  !  that  wish  forbear. 
The  winds  too  soon  will  waft  thee  here : 
Slack  all  thy  sails,  and  fear  to  come  ; 
Alas,  thou  know'st  not,  thou  art  wrecked  at  home ! 
No  more  shalt  thou  behold  thy  sister's  face, 
Thou  hast  already  had  her  last  embrace. 
But  look  aloft,  and  if  thou  ken'st  from  far 
Among  the  Pleiads  a  new-kindled  star. 
If  any  sparkles  than  the  rest  more  bright, 
*Tis  she  that  shines  in  that  propitious  light. 


When  in  mid-air  the  golden  trump  shall  sound. 

To  raise  the  nations  under  ground ; 

When  in  the  valley  of  Jehosaphat, 
The  judging  God  shall  close  the  book  of  fate, 

And  there  the  last  assizes  keep. 

For  those  who  wake,  and  those  who  sleep ; 


34  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

When  rattling  bones  together  fly, 

From  the  four  corners  of  the  sky ; 
When  sinews  o'er  the  skeletons  are  spread, 
Those  clothed  with  flesh,  and  life  inspires  the  dead ; 
The  sacred  poets  first  shall  hear  the  sound, 

And  foremost  from  the  tomb  shall  bound. 
For  they  are  covered  with  the  lightest  ground ; 
And  straight,  with  inborn  vigour,  on  the  wing. 
Like  mounting  larks,  to  the  new  morning  sing. 
There  thou,  sweet  saint,  before  the  choir  shalt  go. 
As  harbinger  of  heaven,  the  way  to  show. 
The  way  which  thou  so  well  hast  learnt  below. 

John  Dryden, 
1631-1700. 

ELEGY 

To  the  Memory  of 

An    Unfortunate    Lady 

[First printed  in  "  The  Works  of  Mr  Alexander  Pope,  London 
1717,"  ^to  and  folio.  It  is  there  entitled  "  Verses  to  the 
Memory  of  an  Unfortunate  Lady."  In  the  Edition  of  i^Tf), 
''^ Elegy"  was  sttbstitiited for  "  Verses."'\ 

What  beck'ning  ghost,  along  the  moonlight  shade 

Invites  my  steps,  and  points  to  yonder  glade? 

'Tis  she  I — but  why  that  bleeding  bosom  gored  ? 

Why  dimly  gleams  the  visionary  sword  ? 

Oh,  ever  beauteous,  ever  friendly  I  tell. 

Is  it,  in  heaven,  a  crime  to  love  too  well  ? 

To  bear  too  tender,  or  too  firm  a  heart, 

To  act  a  lover's  or  a  Roman's  part? 

Is  there  no  bright  reversion  in  the  sky. 

For  those  who  greatly  think,  or  bravely  die  ? 

Why  bade  ye  else,  ye  pow'rs  1  her  soul  aspire 
Above  the  vulgar  flight  of  low  desire? 
Ambition  first  sprung  from  your  blessed  abodes  ; 
The  glorious  fault  of  angels  and  of  gods : 


POPE  35 

Thence  to  their  images  on  earth  it  flows, 
And  in  the  breasts  of  kings  and  heroes  glows. 
Most  souls,  'tis  true,  but  peep  out  once  an  age, 
Dull  sullen  pris'ners  in  the  body's  cage  : 
Dim  lights  of  life,  that  burn  a  length  of  years 
Useless,  unseen,  as  lamps  in  sepulchres  ; 
Like  Eastern  kings  a  lazy  state  they  keep, 
And,  close  confined  to  their  own  palace,  sleep. 
From  these  perhaps  (ere  nature  bade  her  die) 
Fate  snatched  her  early  to  the  pitying  sky. 
As  into  air  the  purer  spirits  flow. 
And  sep'rate  from  their  kindred  dregs  below  ; 
So  flew  the  soul  to  its  congenial  place. 
Nor  left  one  virtue  to  redeem  her  race. 

But  thou,  false  guardian  of  a  charge  too  good, 
Thou  mean  deserter  of  thy  brother's  blood  ! 
See  on  these  ruby  lips  the  trembling  breath. 
These  cheeks  now  fading  at  the  blast  of  death ; 
Cold  is  that  breast  which  warmed  the  world  before. 
And  those  love-darting  eyes  must  roll  no  more. 
Thus,  if  eternal  justice  rules  the  ball, 
Thus  shall  your  wives,  and  thus  your  children  fall : 
On  all  the  line  a  sudden  vengeance  waits. 
And  frequent  hearses  shall  besiege  your  gates ; 
There  passengers  shall  stand,  and  pointing  say, 
(While  the  long  fun'rals  blacken  all  the  way) 
"  Lo !  these  were  they,  whose  souls  the  furies  steeled, 
And  cursed  with  hearts  unknowing  how  to  yield." 
Thus,  unlamented,  pass  the  proud  away. 
The  gaze  of  fools,  and  pageant  of  a  day ! 
So  perish  all,  whose  breast  ne'er  learned  to  glow 
For  others*  good,  or  melt  at  others'  woe. 
What  can  atone,  oh  ever-injured  shade  1 
Thy  fate  unpitied,  and  thy  rites  unpaid? 
No  friend's  complaint,  no  kind  domestic  tear 
Pleased  thy  pale  ghost,  or  graced  thy  mournful  bier. 
By  foreign  hands  thy  dying  eyes  were  closed ; 
By  foreign  hands  thy  decent  limbs  composed  ; 


36  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

By  foreign  hands  thy  humble  grave  adorned, 
By  strangers  honoured,  and  by  strangers  mourned ! 
What  though  no  friends  in  sable  weeds  appear, 
Grieve  for  an  hour,  perhaps,  then  mourn  a  year. 
And  bear  about  the  mockery  of  woe 
To  midnight  dances,  and  the  public  show? 
What  though  no  weeping  loves  thy  ashes  grace, 
Nor  polished  marble  emulate  thy  face? 
What  though  no  sacred  earth  allow  thee  room, 
Nor  hallowed  dirge  be  muttered  o'er  thy  tomb? 
Yet  shall  thy  grave  with  rising  flow'rs  be  dressed, 
And  the  green  turf  lie  lightly  on  thy  breast : 
There  shall  the  morn  her  earliest  tears  bestow ; 
There  the  first  roses  of  the  year  shall  blow ; 
While  angels  with  their  silver  wings  o'ershade 
The  ground,  now  sacred  by  thy  reliques  made. 

So  peaceful  rests,  without  a  stone,  a  name. 
What  once  had  beauty,  titles,  wealth,  and  fame. 
How  loved,  how  honoured  once,  avails  thee  not. 
To  whom  related,  or  by  whom  begot ; 
A  heap  of  dust  alone  remains  of  thee  ; 
'Tis  all  thou  art,  and  all  the  proud  shall  be ! 

Poets  themselves  must  fall  like  those  they  sung, 
Deaf  the  praised  ear,  and  mute  the  tuneful  tongue. 
Ev'n  he,  whose  soul  now  melts  in  mournful  lays. 
Shall  shortly  want  the  gen'rous  tear  he  pays ; 
Then  from  his  closing  eyes  thy  form  shall  part, 
And  the  last  pang  shall  tear  thee  from  his  heart. 
Life's  idle  business  at  one  gasp  be  o'er. 
The  muse  forgot,  and  thou  beloved  no  more! 

Alexander  Pope, 

1688-1744, 


JONSON  37 


AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  LADY  JANE  PAWLET, 
MARCHIONESS  OF  WINTON 

[From    "  Underwoods :    Consisting  of  Divers   Poems"    1641. 
Fart  of  2nd  folio  edition.  ] 

What  gentle  ghost,  besprent  with  April  dew, 

Hails  me  so  solemnly  to  yonder  yew, 
And  beckoning  woos  me,  from  the  fatal  tree 
To  pluck  a  garland  for  herself  or  me  ? 
I  do  obey  you,  beauty !  for  in  death 
You  seem  a  fair  one.     O  that  you  had  breath 
To  give  your  shade  a  name  1    Stay,  stay,  I  feel 
A  horror  in  me,  all  my  blood  is  steel ; 
Stiff,  stark !  my  joints  'gainst  one  another  knock ! 
Whose  daughter  ?— Ha !  great  Savage  of  the  Rock. 
He's  good  as  great.     I  am  almost  a  stone, 
And  ere  I  can  ask  more  of  her,  she 's  gone  !^ 
Alas,  I  am  all  marble  !  write  the  rest 
Thou  wouldst  have  written,  Fame,  upon  my  breast : 
It  is  a  large  fair  table,  and  a  true. 
And  the  disposure  will  be  something  new, 
When  I,  who  would  the  poet  have  become. 
At  least  may  bear  the  inscription  to  her  tomb. 
She  was  the  Lady  Jane,  and  marchionisse 
Of  Winchester  ;  the  heralds  can  tell  this. 
Earl  Rivers'  grandchild — 'serve  not  forms,  good  Fame, 
Sound  thou  her  virtues,  give  her  soul  a  name. 
Had  I  a  thousand  mouths,  as  many  tongues. 
And  voice  to  raise  them  from  my  brazen  lungs, 
I  durst  not  aim  at  that ;  the  dotes  were  such 
Thereof,  no  notion  can  express  how  much 
Their  caract  was :  for  my  trump  must  break. 
But  rather  I,  should  I  of  that  part  speak ; 
It  is  too  near  of  kin  to  heaven,  the  soul. 
To  be  described !   Fame's  fingers  are  too  foul 
To  touch  these  mysteries :  we  may  admire 
The  heat  and  splendour,  but  not  handle  fire. 


38  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

What  she  did  here,  by  great  example,  well, 

T'  inlive  posterity,  her  Fame  may  tell ; 

And  calling  Truth  to  witness,  make  that  good 

From  the  inherent  graces  in  her  blood ! 

Else  who  doth  praise  a  person  by  a  new, 

But  a  feigned  way,  doth  rob  it  of  the  true. 

Her  sweetness,  softness,  her  fair  courtesy, 

Her  wary  guards,  her  wise  simplicity. 

Were  like  a  ring  of  Virtues  'bout  her  set, 

And  Piety  the  centre  where  all  met. 

A  reverend  state  she  had,  an  awful  eye, 

A  dazzling,  yet  inviting,  majesty : 

What  Nature,  Fortune,  Institution,  Fact 

Could  sum  to  a  perfection,  was  her  act ! 

How  did  she  leave  the  world,  with  what  contempt 

Just  as  she  in  it  lived,  and  so  exempt 

From  all  affection ;  when  they  urged  the  cure 

Of  her  disease,  how  did  her  soul  assure 

Her  sufferings,  as  the  body  had  been  away ! 

And  to  the  torturers,  her  doctors,  say, 

Stick  on  your  cupping-glasses,  fear  not,  put 

Your  hottest  caustics  to,  burn,  lance,  or  cut : 

'Tis  but  a  body  which  you  can  torment, 

And  I  into  the  world  all  soul  was  sent. 

Then  comforted  her  lord,  and  blest  her  son. 

Cheered  her  fair  sisters  in  her  race  to  run, 

With  gladness  tempered  her  sad  parents'  tears, 

Made  her  friends  joys  to  get  above  their  fears. 

And  in  her  last  act  taught  the  standers-by 

With  admiration  and  applause  to  die ! 

Let  angels  sing  her  glories,  who  did  call 
Her  spirit  home  to  her  original  ; 
Who  saw  the  way  was  made  it,  and  were  sent 
To  carry  and  conduct  the  compliment 
'Twixt  death  and  life,  where  her  mortality 
Became  her  birth-day  to  eternity  1 
And  now  through  circumfused  light  she  looks. 
On  Nature's  secret  there,  as  her  own  books  : 


JONSON  39 

Speaks  heaven's  language,  and  discourseth  free 

To  every  order,  every  hierarchy ! 

Beholds  her  Maker,  and  in  Him  doth  see 

What  the  beginnings  of  all  beauties  be ; 

And  all  beatitudes  that  thence  do  Rov/ : 

Which  they  that  have  the  crovyn  are  sure  to  know! 

Go  now,  her  happy  parents,  and  be  sad, 
If  you  not  understand  what  child  you  had. 
If  you  dare  grudge  at  heaven,  and  repent 
T'have  paid  again  a  blessing  wras  but  lent. 
And  trusted  so,  as  it  deposited  lay 
At  pleasure,  to  be  called  for  every  day! 
If  you  can  envy  your  own  daughter's  bliss. 
And  wish  her  state  less  happy  than  it  is ; 
If  you  can  cast  about  your  either  eye, 
And  see  all  dead  here,  or  about  to  die ! 
The  stars,  that  are  the  jewels  of  the  night. 
And  day,  deceasing,  with  the  prince  of  light. 
The  sun,  great  kings,  and  mightiest  kingdoms  fall ; 
Whole  nations,  nay,  mankind !  the  world,  with  all 
That  ever  had  beginning  there,  t'  have  end  ! 
With  what  injustice  should  one  soul  pretend 
T'  escape  this  common  known  necessity  ? 
When  we  were  all  born,  we  began  to  die ; 
And,  but  for  that  contention,  and  brave  strife 
The  Christian  hath  t'  enjoy  the  future  life, 
He  were  the  wretched'st  of  the  race  of  men : 
But  as  he  soars  at  that,  he  bruiseth  then 
The  serpent's  head  ;  gets  above  death  and  sin, 
And,  sure  of  heaven,  rides  triumphing  in. 

Ben  Jonson, 
1573  ?— 1637, 


40  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

EPITAPH  ON  MARCHIONESS  OF 
WINCHESTER 

["  Poems  of  Mr  John  Milton,  both  English  and  Latin,  composed 
at  several  ti?nes,  1646."  Lady  Winchester  died  April 
15,   1631.] 

This  rich  marble  doth  inter 

The  honoured  wife  of  Winchester, 

A  Viscount's  daughter,  an  Earl's  heir, 

Besides  what  her  virtues  fair 

Added  to  her  noble  birth. 

More  than  she  could  own  from  Earth. 

Summers  three  times  eight,  save  one, 

She  had  told  ;  alas  !  too  soon. 

After  so  short  time  of  breath, 

To  house  with  darkness,  and  with  death ! 

Yet  had  the  number  of  her  days 

Been  as  complete  as  was  her  praise, 

Nature  and  Fate  had  had  no  strife 

In  giving  limit  to  her  life. 

Her  high  birth,  and  her  graces  sweet, 

Quickly  found  a  lover  meet: 

The  virgin  quire  for  her  request 

The  god  that  sits  at  marriage  feast ; 

He  at  their  invoking  came, 

But  with  a  scarce  well-lighted  flame ; 

And  in  his  garland,  as  he  stood, 

Ye  might  discern  a  cypress  bud. 

Once  had  the  early  matrons  run 

To  greet  her  of  a  lovely  son, 

And  now  with  second  hope  she  goes. 

And  calls  Lucina  to  her  throes ; 

But  whether  by  mischance  or  blame, 

Atropos  for  Lucina  came  ; 

And  with  remorseless  cruelty 

Spoiled  at  once  both  fruit  and  tree. 

The  hapless  babe  before  his  birth 

Had  burial,  not  yet  laid  in  earth ; 


MILTON  41 

And  the  languished  mother's  womb 

Was  not  long  a  living  tomb. 

So  have  I  seen  some  tender  slip, 

Saved  with  care  from  winter's  nip. 

The  pride  of  her  carnation  train, 

Plucked  up  by  some  unheedy  swain, 

Who  only  thought  to  crop  the  flower 

New  shot  up  from  vernal  shower ; 

But  the  fair  blossom  hangs  the  head 

Side-ways,  as  on  a  dying  bed. 

And  those  pearls  of  dew  she  wears, 

Prove  to  be  presaging  tears 

Which  the  sad  morn  had  let  fall 

On  her  hastening  funeral. 

Gentle  Lady,  may  thy  grave 

Peace  and  quiet  ever  have ! 

After  this  thy  travail  sore. 

Sweet  rest  seize  thee  evermore. 

That  to  give  the  world  increase, 

Shortened  hast  thy  own  life's  lease. 

Here,  besides  the  sorrowing 

That  thy  noble  house  doth  bring, 

Here  be  tears  of  perfect  moan 

Wept  for  thee  in  Helicon  ; 

And  some  flowers,  and  some  bays. 

For  thy  hearse,  to  strew  the  ways, 

Sent  thee  from  the  banks  of  Came, 

Devoted  to  thy  virtuous  name  ; 

Whilst  thou,  bright  Saint,  high  sitt'st  in  glory, 

Next  her,  much  like  to  thee  in  story. 

That  fair  Syrian  shepherdess. 

Who,  after  years  of  barrenness. 

The  highly-favoured  Joseph  bore 

To  him  that  served  for  her  before, 

And  at  her  next  birth,  much  like  thee. 

Through  pangs  fled  to  felicity. 

Far  within  the  bosom  bright 

Of  blazing  Majesty  and  Light : 


42  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

There  with  thee,  new-welcome  saint, 
Like  fortunes  may  her  soul  acquaint. 
With  thee  there  clad  in  radiant  sheen, 
No  Marchioness,  but  now  a  Queen. 


John  Milton, 
1608-1674. 


ON  SHAKSPEARE,  1630 

[First  printed  anonymously  among  the  Commendatory  verses 
prefixed  to  the  Shakspeare  Folio  of  1632,  where  it  is 
entitled  '■'■An  Epitaph  on  the  Admirable  Dramatick 
Poet,   W.  Shakespeare. "'[ 

What  needs  my  Shakspeare  for  his  honoured  bones, 

The  labour  of  an  age  in  piled  stones? 

Or  that  his  hallowed  relics  should  be  hid 

Under  a  star-ypointing  pyramid? 

Dear  son  of  memory,  great  heir  of  fame. 

What  need'st  thou  such  weak  witness  of  thy  name  ? 

Thou  in  our  wonder  and  astonishment 

Hast  built  thyself  a  livelong  monument. 

For  whilst  to  the  shame  of  slow-endeavouring  art 

Thy  easy  numbers  flow,  and  that  each  heart 

Hath  from  the  leaves  of  thy  unvalued  book 

Those  Delphic  lines  with  deep  impression  took. 

Then  thou,  our  fancy  of  itself  bereaving, 

Dost  make  us  marble  with  too  much  conceiving, 

And  so  sepulchred  in  such  pomp  dost  lie. 

That  kings  for  such  a  tomo  would  wish  to  die. 

John  Milton, 
1608-1674, 


JONSON  43 

To  the  Memory  of  My  Beloved 
MASTER  WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE, 
And  What  He  Hath  Left  us. 

[From  "  Underwoods :  consisting  of  Divers  Poems,"  16^1,  part  of 

the  second  folio  edition.  ] 

To  draw  no  envy,  Shakspeare,  on  thy  name, 

Am  I  thus  ample  to  thy  book  and  fame ; 

While  I  confess  thy  writings  to  be  such, 

As  neither  man,  nor  Muse,  can  praise  too  much. 

'Tis  true,  and  all  men's  suffrage.     But  these  ways 

Were  not  the  paths  I  meant  unto  thy  praise; 

For  silliest  ignorance  on  these  may  light. 

Which,  when  it  sounds  at  best,  but  echoes  right ; 

Or  blind  affection,  which  doth  ne'er  advance 

The  truth,  but  gropes,  and  urgeth  all  by  chance ; 

Or  crafty  malice  might  pretend  this  praise, 

And  think  to  ruin,  where  it  seem'd  to  raise. 

These  are,  as  some  infamous  bawd,  or  whore. 

Should  praise  a  matron  ;  what  could  hurt  her  more  ? 

But  thou  art  proof  against  them,  and,  indeed, 

Above  the  ill  fortune  of  them,  or  the  need. 

I  therefore  will  begin  :  Soul  of  the  age  1 

The  applause  !  delight  1  the  wonder  of  our  stage  ! 

My  Shakspeare,  rise !   I  will  not  lodge  thee  by 

Chaucer,  or  Spenser,  or  bid  Beaumont  lie 

A  little  farther  off,  to  make  thee  room : 

Thou  art  a  monument  without  a  tomb. 

And  art  alive  still,  while  thy  book  doth  live 

And  we  have  wits  to  read,  and  praise  to  give. 

That  I  not  mix  thee  so,  my  brain  excuses, 

I  mean  with  great,  but  disproportioned.  Muses : 

For  if  I  thought  my  judgment  were  of  years, 

I  should  commit  thee  surely  with  thy  peers. 

And  tell  how  far  thou  didst  our  Lily  outshine. 

Or  sporting  Kyd,  or  Marlow's  mighty  line. 


44  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

And  though  thou  hadst  small  Latin,  and  less  Greek, 

From  thence  to  honour  thee,  I  will  not  seek 

For  names :  but  call  forth  thund'ring  Eschylus, 

Euripides,  and  Sophocles  to  us, 

Pacuvius,  Accius,  him  of  Cordova  dead. 

To  live  again,  to  hear  thy  buskin  tread. 

And  shake  a  stage :   or  when  thy  socks  were  on, 

Leave  thee  alone  for  the  comparison 

Of  all,  that  insolent  Greece,  or  haughty  Rome 

Sent  forth,  or  since  did  from  their  ashes  come. 

Triumph,  my  Britain,  thou  hast  one  to  show. 

To  whom  all  scenes  of  Europe  homage  owe. 

He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time  I 

And  all  the  Muses  still  were  in  their  prime. 

When,  like  Apollo,  he  came  forth  to  warm 

Our  ears,  or  like  a  Mercury  to  charm ! 

Nature  herself  was  proud  of  his  designs, 

And  joyed  to  wear  the  dressing  of  his  lines ! 

Which  were  so  richly  spun,  and  woven  so  fit, 

As,  since,  she  will  vouchsafe  no  other  wit. 

The  merry  Greek,  tart  Aristophanes, 

Neat  Terence,  witty  Plautus,  now  not  please ; 

But  antiquated  and  deserted  lie. 

As  they  were  not  of  nature's  family. 

Yet  must  I  not  give  nature  all ;  thy  art, 

My  gentle  Shakspeare,  must  enjoy  a  part. 

For  though  the  poet's  matter  nature  be, 

His  art  doth  give  the  fashion  ;  and,  that  he 

Who  casts  to  write  a  living  line,  must  sweat 

(Such  as  thine  are)  and  strike  the  second  heat 

Upon  the  Muses  anvil ;  turn  the  same. 

And  himself  with  it,  that  he  thinks  to  frame  ; 

Or  for  the  laurel,  he  may  gain  a  scorn  ; 

For  a  good  poet's  made,  as  well  as  born. 

And  such  wert  thou  !    Look  how  the  father's  face 

Lives  in  his  issue,  even  so  the  race 

Of  Shakspeare's  mind  and  manners  brightly  shines 

In  his  well-turned  and  true-filed  lines : 


CLEVELAND  45 

In  each  of  which  he  seems  to  shake  a  lance, 

As  brandished  at  the  eyes  of  ignorance. 

Sweet  Swan  of  Avon !  what  a  sight  it  were 

To  see  thee  in  our  water  yet  appear, 

And  make  those  flights  upon  the  banks  of  Thames, 

That  so  did  take  Eliza,  and  our  James ! 

But  stay,  I  see  thee  in  the  hemisphere 

Advanced,  and  made  a  constellation  there! 

Shine  forth,  thou  Star  of  poets,  and  with  rage. 

Or  influence,  chide,  or  cheer  the  drooping  stage. 

Which,  since  thy  flight  from  hence,  hath  mourn'd  like  night, 

And  despairs  day,  but  for  thy  volume's  light. 

Ben  Jonson, 
1573  (?)-1637. 


AN  EPITAPH  ON  BEN  JONSON 

[From  ^'/onsonus    Virbius :  or  ike  Memorte  of  Ben  Johnson. 
Revived  by  the  Friends  of  the  Muses"  1638.] 

The  Muses  fairest  Light  in  no  dark  time, 

The  Wonder  of  a  Learned  Age ;  the  Line 
Which  none  can  pass,  the  most  proportioned  Wit 
To  Nature,  the  best  Judge  of  what  was  fit : 
The  deepest,  plainest,  highest,  clearest  Pen  ; 
The  Voice  most  echoed  by  consenting  Men ; 
The  Soul  which  answered  best  to  all,  well  said 
By  others,  and  which  most  requital  made : 
Tuned  to  the  highest  Key  of  Ancient  Rome, 
Returning  all  her  Musick  with  his  own  : 
In  whom  with  Nature,  Study  claimed  a  Part, 
Yet  who  unto  himself  owed  all  this  Art : 
Here  lies  Ben  Johnson ;  every  Age  will  look 
With  Sorrow  here,  with  Wonder  on  his  Book. 

John  Cleveland, 
1613—1658. 


46  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF   MR  OLDHAM 

[Oldham  died  gih  December  1683,  and  this  poem  was^  printed, 
with  other  commendaio7y  verses,  in  his  ''Remains"  in  verse 
atid prose,  which  appeared  in  the  followi7tg year.'] 

Farewell,  too  little  and  too  lately  known 
Whom  I  began  to  think,  and  call  my  own: 
For  sure  our  souls  were  near  allied,  and  thine 
Cast  in  the  same  poetic  mould  with  mine. 
One  common  note  on  either  lyre  did  strike, 
And  knaves  and  fools  we  both  abhorred  alike ; 
To  the  same  goal  did  both  our  studies  drive ; 
The  last  set  out,  the  soonest  did  arrive. 
Thus  Nisus  fell  upon  the  slippery  place, 
Whilst  his  young  friend  performed  and  won  the  race. 
O  early  ripe !  to  thy  abundant  store 
What  could  advancing  age  have  added  more? 
It  might  (what  nature  never  gives  the  young) 
Have  taught  the  numbers  of  thy  native  tongue. 
But  satire  needs  not  those,  and  wit  vnW  shine 
Through  the  harsh  cadence  of  a  rugged  line. 
A  noble  error,  and  but  seldom  made. 
When  poets  are  by  too  much  force  betrayed. 
Thy  generous  fruits,  though  gathered  ere  their  prime, 
Still  showed  a  quickness  ;  and  maturing  time 
But  mellows  what  we  write  to  the  dull  sweets  of  rhyme. 
Once  more,  hail,  and  farewell !  farewell,  thou  young 
But  ah !  too  short,  Marcellus  of  our  tongue ! 
Thy  brows  with  ivy  and  with  laurels  bound : 
But  fate  and  gloomy  night  encompass  thee  around. 

John  Dryden, 
1631-1700. 


BASSE  47 

ELEGY  ON  SHAKSPEARE 

(From  Lansdowne  MS.     Temp.  James  I.) 


[  This  Elegy  was  first  printed  in  the  first  edition  of  Donne's 
collected  poems,  1633.  It  was  omitted  in  the  later 
edition  of  1635,  '^^'^^  appears  with  the  subscription  IV.  B. 
itt  the  editiori  of  Shakspcare' s  poems  of  1640  ;  so  writes 
Mr  R.  Warwick  Bond,  in  his  "  Poetical  Works  of  William 
Basse,"  1893.  Bassets  claim  to  the  azithorship  rests  on  the 
fact  that  his  name  is  attached  to  the  lines  in  the  Lansdowne 
atid  other  MS S.] 


Renowned  Spenser  lie  a  thought  more  nigh 
To  learned  Chaucer,  and  rare  Beaumont  lie 
A  little  nearer  Spenser,  to  make  room 
For  Shakespeare  in  your  threefold,  fourfold  tomb. 
To  lodge  all  four  in  one  bed  make  a  shift 
Until  Doomsday,  for  hardly  will  a  fift* 
Betwixt  this  day  and  that  by  Fate  be  slain, 
For  whom  your  curtains  may  be  drawn  again. 
If  your  precedency  in  death  doth  bar 
A  fourth  place  in  your  sacred  sepulchre, 
Under  this  carved  marble  of  thine  own, 
Sleep,  rare  Tragedian,  Shakespeare,  sleep  alone: 
Thy  unmolested  peace,  unshared  cave 
Possess  as  lord,  not  tenant,  of  thy  grave. 
That  unto  us  and  others  it  may  be 
Honour  hereafter  to  be  laid  by  thee. 

William  Basse, 
1602-1653. 


fifth. 


4S  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

SHAKSPEARE 

{The  seventy-fi7-st  Sonnet.  First  printed  in  '^ Shakspearis 
Sonnets.  Never  before  Imprinted.  At  London  by  G.  Eld 
for  T.  T.,  and  are  to  be  solde  by  William  Apsley,  1609."] 

No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead, 
Than  you  shall  hear  the  surly  sullen  bell 
Give  warning  to  the  world  that  I  am  fled 
From  this  vile  world,  with  vilest  worms  to  dwell : 
Nay,  if  you  read  this  line,  remember  not 
The  hand  that  writ  it ;  for  I  love  you  so 
That  I  in  your  sweet  thoughts  would  be  forgot 
If  thinking  on  me  then  should  make  you  w^oe. 
O,  if,  I  say,  you  look  upon  this  verse 
When  I  perhaps  compounded  am  with  clay, 
Do  not  so  much  as  my  poor  name  rehearse. 
But  let  your  lov  even  with  my  life  decay, 

Lest  the  wise  world  should  look  into  your  moan, 
And  mock  you  with  me  after  I  am  gone. 

William  Shakspeare, 
1564—1616. 


RALEIGH 

[Printed  with  Raleigh's  "  Prerogative  of  Parliaments,'^  1628  : 
and  in  his  "  Remains"  1661,  with  the  title  '■'■  Fonnd  in  his 
Bible  in  the  Gate  House  at  Westminster."  The  lines  are 
also  fotind  as  the  last  stanza  of  a  poem  which  A/r  Bullen 
has  reprinted  in  his  Speculum  Amantis  from  Hart.  MS. 
6917,  fol.  48.  The  stanza  there  begins  "  Oh,  cruel  Time," 
and  the  last  two  lines  are  omitted.  ] 

Even  such  is  time  that  takes  in  trust, 
Our  youth,  our  joys,  our  all  we  have. 

And  pays  us  but  with  earth  and  dust ; 
Who  in  the  dark  and  silent  grave, 


DUNBAR  49 

When  we  have  wandered  all  our  ways, 

Shuts  up  the  story  of  our  days  : 
But  from  this  earth,  this  grave,  this  dust, 
My  God  shall  raise  me  up,  I  trust. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh, 
^  1552-1618. 

LAMENT   FOR  THE  MAKARIS* 

When  he  was  sick 

[Prinied  by  Chepinan  and  Myllar,  the  earliest  Scotch  printers, 
in  1508.] 

I  that  in  heill  wes,  and  glaidness, 
Am  trublit  now  with  gret  seikness, 
And  feblit  with  infirmitie ; 

Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Our  plesance  heir  is  all  vane  glory, 
This  fals  warld  is  bot  transitory. 
The  flesche  is  brukle,  the  Feynd  is  sle  ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

The  stait  of  Man  dois  change  and  vary, 
Now  sound,  now  seik,  now  blyth,  now  sary, 
Now  dansand  mirry,  now  like  to  die ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

No  Stait  in  Erd  heir  standis  sicker ; 
As  with  the  wynd  wavis  the  wickir, 
So  wannis  this  Warldis  vanite ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Unto  the  Deid  gois  all  Estaitis, 
Princis,  Prellattis,  and  Potestaitis, 
Baith  riche,  and  puire  of  all  degre  ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 


*  Poets.  I  have  thought  it  undesirable  to  make  any  attempt 
to  modernise  the  spelling  of  this  poem,  the  earliest  included  in 
the  section. 


50  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

He  takis  the  Knychtis  in  to  feild, 
Anarmit  under  helme  and  scheild  ; 
Victour  he  is  at  all  mellie  ; 

Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

That  strong  unmercifull  tyrand 
Takis  on  the  Mutheris  breist  sowkand 
The  Bab,  full  of  benignite  ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

He  takis  the  Campioun  in  the  stour,* 
The  Capitane  closit  in  the  tour, 
The  Lady  in  bour  full  of  bewtie  ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

He  spairis  no  Lord  for  his  piscence,t 
Nor  Clerk  for  his  intelligence  : 
His  awfuU  stiaik  may  no  man  fie  ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Art  Magicianis,  and  Astrologgis, 
Rethoris,  Logicianis,  Theologgis, 
Thame  helpis  no  conclusionis  sle  ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

In  Medicyne  the  most  Practicianis, 
Leichis,  Surrigianis,  and  Phisicianis, 
Thame  self  fra  Deth  may  nocht  supple ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

I  see  that  Makaris  amang  the  laif 
Playis  heir  thair  padyanis.t  syne  gois  to  graif ; 
Spairit  is  nocht  thair  faculte  ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

He  hes  done  peteouslie  devour. 
The  noble  Chawcer  of  Makaris  flouir. 
The  Monk  of  Bery,  and  Gower  all  thre ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

*  tumult.  t  puissance.  J  pageants. 


DUNBAR  51 

The  gude  Schir  Hew  of  Eglintoun, 
Etrik,   Heryot,  and  Wyntoun, 
He  hes  tane  out  of  this  Cuntre  ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

That  Scorpioun  fell  hes  done  infek 
Maister  Johne  Clerk,  and  James  Afflek, 
Fra  ballot  making  and  tragede  ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Holland  and  Barbour  he  has  berevit ; 
Allace !  that  he  nocht  with  us  levit 
Schir  Mungo  Lokert  of  the  Le ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Clerk  of  Tranent  eik  he  hes  tane, 
That  maid  the  awnteris  of  Gawane : 
Schir  Gilbert  Hay  endit  hes  he: 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

He  hes  Blind  Hary,  and  Sandy  Traill 
Slaine  with  his  schot  of  mortall  haill, 
Quhilk  Patrik  Johnestoun  micht  nocht  fle  ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

He  hes  reft  Merseir  his  endyte, 
That  did  in  luve  so  lifly  write, 
So  schort,  so  quyk,  of  sentence  hie  ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

He  has  tane  Roull  of  Abirdene, 
And  gentill  Roull  of  Corstorphine  : 
Two  better  fallowis  did  no  man  se ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

In  Dunfermelyne  he  hes  tane  Broun, 
With  Maister  Robert  Henrisoun  : 
Schir  Johne  the  Ross  embraist  hes  he ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 


52  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

And  he  hes  now  tane,  last  of  aw, 
Gud  gentill  Stobo,  and  Quintyne  Schaw, 
Of  quhome  all  wichtis  hes  petie : 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Gud  Maister  Walter  Kennedy, 
In  poynt  of  dede  lyis  veraly, 
Gret  reuth  it  wer  that  so  suld  be ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Sen  he  hes  all  my  Brether  tane. 
He  will  nocht  lat  me  leif  alane, 
On  forse  I  mon  his  nyxt  pray  be ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Sen  for  the  Deid  remeid  is  non. 
Best  is  that  we  for  deid  dispone, 
Eftir  our  deid  that  leif  may  we. 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 


William  Dunbar, 
1465?-1530? 


TO  SIR  WILLIAM  ALEXANDER 

[^'Flowers  of  S ion.     By  William  Drummond,  of  Hawthorne- 
Denne.''''     1623.] 

Though  I  have  twice  been  at  the  doors  of  death. 
And  twice  found  shut  those  gates  which  ever  mourn, 
This  but  a  lightning  is,  truce  ta'en  to  breath, 
For  lateborn  sorrows  augur  fleet  return. 
Amidst  thy  sacred  cares  and  courtly  toils, 
Alexis,  when  thou  shalt  hear  wandering  Fame 
Tell,  Death  hath  triumphed  o'er  my  mortal  spoils, 
And  that  on  earth  I  am  but  a  sad  name ; 


HERRICK  53 

If  thou  e'er  held  me  dear,  by  all  our  love, 
By  all  that  bliss,  those  joys  Heaven  here  us  gave, 
I  conjure  thee,  and  by  the  maids  of  Jove, 
To  grave  this  short  remembrance  on  my  grave : 
Here  Damon  lies,  whose  songs  did  sometime  grace 
The  murmuring  Esk :  may  roses  shade  the  place ! 

William  Drummond, 
1585-1649. 

CHARGE  TO  JULIA  AT  HIS  DEATH 

[From  '^/Ies/<endes,  or  The  Works  both  Humane  and  Divine  of 
Robert  Heriick,  Esi^.,"  1648.] 

Dearest  of  thousands,  now  the  time  draws  near 

That  with  my  lines  my  life  must  full-stop  here. 

Cut  off  thy  hairs,  and  let  thy  tears  be  shed 

Over  my  turf,  when  I  am  buried. 

Then  for  effusions,*  let  none  wanting  be, 

Or  other  rites  that  do  belong  to  me  ; 

As  love  shall  help  thee,  when  thou  dost  go  hence 

Unto  thy  everlasting  residence. 

Robert  Herrick, 
^  1591-1674, 

ELEGY 
On  a  Lady,  whom  Grief  for  the  Death  of  her 
Betrothed  Killed. 
[roems,  1873.] 
Assemble,  all  ye  maidens,  at  the  door. 
And  all  ye  loves,  assemble  ;  far  and  wide 
Proclaim  the  bridal,  that  proclaimed  before 
Has  been  deferred  to  this  late  eventide : 
For  on  this  night  the  bride. 
The  days  of  her  betrothal  over. 
Leaves  the  parental  hearth  for  evermore ; 
To-night  the  bride  goes  forth  to  meet  her  lover. 


Outpourings  or  libations. 


54  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Reach  down  the  wedding  vesture,  that  has  lain 
Yet  ail  unvisited,  the  silken  gown  : 
Bring  out  the  bracelets,  and  the  golden  chain 
Her  dearer  friends  provided  :  sere  and  brown 
Bring  out  the  festal  crown. 
And  set  it  on  her  forehead  lightly 
Though  it  be  withered,  twine  no  wreath  again ; 
This  only  is  the  crown  she  can  wear  rightly. 

Cloke  her  in  ermine,  for  the  night  is  cold, 
And  wrap  her  warmly,  for  the  night  is  long, 
In  pious  hands  the  flaming  torches  hold. 
While  her  attendants,  chosen  from  among 
Her  faithful  virgin  throng. 
May  lay  her  in  her  cedar  litter, 
Decking  her  coverlet  with  sprigs  of  gold, 
Roses,  and  lilies  white  that  best  befit  her. 

Sound  flute  and  tabor,  that  the  bridal  be 
Not  without  music,  nor  with  these  alone ; 
But  let  the  viol  lead  the  melody. 
With  lesser  intervals,  and  plaintive  moan 
Of  sinking  semitone  ; 
And  all  in  choir,  the  virgin  voices 
Rest  not  from  singing  in  skilled  harmony 
The  song  that  aye  the  bridegroom's  ear  rejoices. 

Let  the  priests  go  before,  arrayed  in  white, 
And  let  the  dark  stoled  minstrels  follow  slow. 
Next  they  that  bear  her,  honoured  on  this  night. 
And  then  the  maidens,  in  a  double  row, 
Each  singing  soft  and  low. 
And  each  on  high  a  torch  upstaying  : 
Unto  her  lover  lead  her  forth  with  light, 
With  music,  and  with  singing,  and  with  praying. 

'Twas  at  this  sheltering  hour  he  nightly  came. 
And  found  her  trusty  window  open  wide. 
And  knew  the  signal  of  the  timorous  flame. 
That  long  the  restless  curtain  would  not  hide 


BRIDGES  55 

Her  form  that  stood  beside  ; 
As  scarce  she  dared  to  be  delighted, 
Listening  to  that  sweet  tale,  that  is  no  shame 
To  faithful  lovers,  that  their  hearts  have  pHghted. 

But  now  for  many  days  the  dewy  grass 
Has  shown  no  markings  of  his  feet  at  morn : 
And  watching  she  has  seen  no  shadow  pass 
The  moonlit  walk,  and  heard  no  music  borne 
Upon  her  ear  forlorn. 
In  vain  has  she  looked  out  to  greet  him ; 
He  has  not  come,  he  will  not  come,  alas ! 
So  let  us  bear  her  out  where  she  must  meet  him. 

Now  to  the  river  bank  the  priests  are  come : 
The  bark  is  ready  to  receive  its  freight: 
Let  some  prepare  her  place  therein,  and  some 
Embark  the  litter  with  its  slender  weight : 
The  rest  stand  by  in  state, 
And  sing  her  a  safe  passage  over ; 
While  she  is  oared  across  to  her  new  home, 
Into  the  arms  of  her  expectant  lover. 

And  thou,  O  lover,  that  art  on  the  watch. 
Where,  on  the  banks  of  the  forgetful  streams. 
The  pale  indifferent  ghosts  wander,  and  snatch 
The  sweeter  moments  of  their  broken  dreams,— 
Thou,  when  the  torchlight  gleams. 
When  thou  shalt  see  the  slow  procession. 
And  when  thine  ears  the  fitful  music  catch, 
Rejoice!  for  thou  art  near  to  thy  possession. 

Robert  Bridges. 


56  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

TO  BIANCA 

[Hesperides,  or  The  IVorks  Both  Humane  and  Divine  of  Robert 
Herrick,  Esq.,  1648.] 

Ah,  Bianca!  now  I  see, 
It  is  noon  and  past  with  me : 
In  a  while  it  will  strike  one ; 
Then,  Bianca,  I  am  gone. 
Some  effusions*  let  me  have, 
Offered  on  my  holy  grave ; 
Then,  Bianca,  let  me  rest 
With  my  face  towards  the  East. 

Robert  Herrick, 
1591—1674. 
¥ 

FATE !  I    HAVE  ASKED 

[The  Works  of  Walter  Savage  Lander,  1846.] 

Fate !  I  have  asked  few  things  of  thee 

And  fewer  have  to  ask. 
Shortly,  thou  knowest,  I  shall  be 

No  more :  then  con  thy  task. 

If  one  be  left  on  earth  so  late 

Whose  love  is  like  the  past. 
Tell  her  in  whispers,  gentle  Fate ! 

Not  even  love  must  last. 

Tell  her  I  leave  the  noisy  feast 

Of  life,  a  little  tired. 
Amid  its  pleasures  few  possessed 

And  many  undesired. 

Tell  her  with  steady  pace  to  come 

And,  where  my  laurels  lie, 
To  throw  the  freshest  on  the  tomb, 

When  it  has  caught  her  sigh. 


Outpourings  or  libations. 


LANDOR  57 

Tell  her  to  stand  some  steps  apart 

From  others  on  that  day, 
And  check  the  tear  (if  tear  should  start) 

Too  precious  for  dull  clay. 

Walter  Savage  Laador, 
1775-1864. 


DEATH  STANDS  ABOVE  ME 

[From  "  T/ie  Last  Fruit  of  an  old  Tree,  by  Walter  Savage 
Landor,  1853."] 

Death  stands  above  me,  whispering  low 

I  know  not  what  into  my  ear ; 
Of  his  strange  language  all  I  know 

Is,  there  is  not  a  word  of  fear. 

Walter  Savage  Landor, 
1775-1864, 


ON  SOUTHEY'S  DEATH 

["Dry  sticks  fagoted  by  Walter  Savage  Landor,'''  1858. 
Southey  died  in  1843.] 

Friends  1  hear  the  words  my  wandering  thoughts  would 

say. 
And  cast  them  into  shape  some  other  day. 
Southey,  my  friend  of  forty  years,  is  gone, 
And,  shattered  by  the  fall,  I  stand  alone. 

Walter  Savage  Landor, 
1775-1864. 


58  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

TO  THE  SISTER  OF  ELIA 

[First printed  in  "Ablet's  Literary  Hours;'  1837.  Reprinted 
in  the  "  Works  of  Walter  Savage  Landor,"  1846.  Charles 
Lamb  died  in   1834.] 

Comfort  thee,  O  thou  mourner,  yet  awhile ! 

Again  shall  Elia's  smile 
Refresh  thy  heart,  where  heart  can  ache  no  more 

What  is  it  we  deplore  ? 

He  leaves  behind  him,  freed  from  griefs  and  years, 

Far  worthier  things  than  tears, 
The  love  of  friends  without  a  single  foe : 

Unequalled  lot  below! 

His  gentle  soul,  his  genius,  these  are  thine ; 

For  these  dost  thou  repine? 
He  may  have  left  the  lowly  walks  of  men  ; 

Left  them  he  has ;  what  then  ? 

Are  not  his  footsteps  followed  by  the  eyes 

Of  all  the  good  and  wise  ? 
Tho'  the  warm  day  is  over,  yet  they  seek 

Upon  the  lofty  peak 

Of  his  pure  mind  the  roseate  light  that  glows 

O'er  death's  perennial  snows. 
Behold  him !  from  the  region  of  the  blest 
He  speaks :  he  bids  thee  rest. 

Walter  Savage  Landor, 
1775-1864, 


SWINBURNE  59 

IN  MEMORY  OF  WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 

[From  "  Poems  and  Ballads,"  vol.  «.] 

Back  to  the  flower-town,  side  by  side, 

The  bright  months  bring, 
New-born,  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride, 

Freedom  and  spring. 

The  sweet  land  laughs  from  sea  to  sea, 

Filled  full  of  sun  ; 
AH  things  come  back  to  her,  being  free ; 

All  things  but  one. 

In  many  a  tender  wheaten  plot 

Flowers  that  were  dead 
Live,  and  old  suns  revive  ;  but  not 

That  holier  head. 

By  this  white  wandering  waste  of  sea, 

Far  north  I  hear 
One  face  shall  never  turn  to  me 

As  once  this  year : 

Shall  never  smile  and  turn  and  rest 

On  mine  as  there, 
Nor  one  most  sacred  hand  be  prest 

Upon  my  hair. 

I  came  as  one  whose  thoughts  half  linger, 

Half  run  before ; 
The  youngest  to  the  oldest  singer 

That  England  bore. 

I  found  him  whom  I  shall  not  find 

Till  all  grief  end. 
In  holiest  age  our  mightiest  mind. 

Father  and  friend. 


6o  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

But  thou,  if  anything  endure, 

If  hope  there  be, 
O  spirit  that  man's  Ufe  left  pure, 

Man's  death  set  free, 

Not  with  disdain  of  days  that  were 
Look  earthward  now ; 

Let  dreams  revive  the  reverend  hair, 
The  imperial  brow ; 


Come  back  in  sleep,  for  in  the  life 

Where  thou  art  not 
We  find  none  like  thee.     Time  and  strife 

And  the  world's  lot 

Move  thee  no  more ;  but  love  at  least 

And  reverent  heart 
May  move  thee,  royal  and  released, 

Soul,  as  thou  art. 

And  thou,  his  Florence,  to  thy  trust 

Receive  and  keep, 
Keep  safe  his  dedicated  dust. 

His  sacred  sleep. 

So  shall  thy  lovers,  come  from  far. 

Mix  with  thy  name 
As  morning-star  vntn  evening-star 

His  faultless  fame. 

Algeraon  Charles  Swinburne. 


COLLINS  6i 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THOMSON 

["Ah  Ode  occasioned  dy  the  death  of  Mr  Thomson. 
Land.  1749."] 

"  The  scene  of  the  following  stanzas  is  supposed  to  lie  on  the 
Thames,  near  Richmond." — Original  Advertisement  by  Collins. 

In  yonder  grave  a  druid  lies, 
Where  slowly  winds  the  stealing  wave ; 

The  year's  best  sweets  shall  duteous  rise 
To  deck  its  poet's  sylvan  grave. 

In  yon  deep  bed  of  whispering  reeds 

His  airy  harp  *  shall  now  be  laid, 
That  he,  whose  heart  in  sorrow  bleeds, 

May  love  through  life  the  soothing  shade. 

Then  maids  and  youths  shall  linger  here, 
And  while  its  sounds  at  distance  swell, 

Shall  sadly  seem  in  pity's  ear 
To  hear  the  woodland  pilgrim's  knell. 

Remembrance  oft  shall  haunt  the  shore 
When  Thames  in  summer  wreaths  is  drest. 

And  oft  suspend  the  dashing  oar, 
To  bid  his  gentle  spirit  rest ! 

And  oft,  as  ease  and  health  retire 
To  breezy  lawn,  or  forest  deep. 
The  friend  shall  view  yon  whitening  spire,  f 
And  'mid  the  varied  landscape  weep. 

But  thou,  who  own'st  that  earthy  bed, 

Ah  I  what  will  every  dirge  avail ; 
Or  tears,  which  love  and  pity  shed 
That  mourn  beneath  that  gliding  sail? 


*  The  harp  of  Aeolus,  described  in  Thomson's  "Castle  of 
Indolence." 
t  Richmond  Church,  where  Thomson  is  buried. 


62  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Yet  lives  there  one  whose  heedless  eye 
Shall  scorn  thy  pale  shrine  glimmering  near? 

With  him,  sweet  bard,  may  fancy  die. 
And  joy  desert  the  blooming  year. 

But  thou,  lorn  stream,  whose  sullen  tide 
No  sedge-crowned  sisters  now  attend, 

Now  waft  me  from  the  green  hill's  side. 
Whose  cold  turf  hides  the  buried  friend ! 

And  see— the  fairy  valleys  fade; 

Dun  night  has  veiled  the  solemn  view! 
Yet  once  again,  dear  parted  shade, 

Meek  nature's  child,  again  adieu! 

The  genial  meads,  assigned  to  bless 
Thy  life,  shill  mourn  thy  early  doom  ; 

Their  hinds  and  shepherd-girls  shall  dress 
With  simple  hands,  thy  rural  tomb. 

Long,  long,  thy  stone  and  pointed  clay 
Shall  melt  the  musing  Briton's  eyes; 
O  vales  and  wild  woods !  shall  he  say. 
In  yonder  grave  your  druid  lies. 

William  Collins, 
1721-1759, 


REMEMBRANCE  OF  COLLINS 

(Composed  upon  the  Thames  near  Richmond) 

[Lyrical  Ballads,  with  a  few  other  Poems.    Joseph  Cottle, 
Bnstoi,  1798.] 

Glide  gently,  thus  for  ever  glide, 
O  Thames !  that  other  bards  may  see 
As  lovely  visions  by  thy  side 
As  now,  fair  river !  come  to  me. 


WORDSWORTH  63 

0  glide,  fair  stream  !  for  ever  so, 
Thy  quiet  soul  on  all  bestowing, 
Till  all  our  minds  for  ever  flow, 

As  thy  deep  waters  now  are  flowing. 

Vain  thought !— yet  be  as  now  thou  art, 
That  in  thy  waters  may  be  seen 
The  image  of  a  poet's  heart. 
How  bright,  how  solemn,  how  serene : 
Such  as  did  once  the  Poet  bless, 
Who  murmuring  here  a  later  ditty,* 
Could  find  no  refuge  from  distress, 
But  in  the  milder  grief  of  pity. 

Now  let  us,  as  we  float  along. 
For  hiai  suspend  the  dashing  oar ; 
And  pray  that  never  child  of  song. 
May  know  that  Poet's  sorrows  more. 
How  calm !  how  still !  the  only  sound. 
The  dripping  of  the  oar  suspended ! 
— The  evening  darkness  gathers  round, 
By  virtue's  holiest  Powers  attended. 

William  Wordsworth, 
1770—1850. 
¥ 

AT  THE  GRAVE  OF    BURNS 

[T/ie  Poems  of  William  Wordszvorlh,  D.C.L.,  Poet-Laureate, 
etc.,  1845.] 

1  shiver,  Spirit  fierce  and  bold. 

At  thought  of  what  I  now  behold : 

As  vapours  breathed  from  dungeons  cold 

Strike  pleasure  dead. 
So  sadness  comes  from  out  the  mould 

Where  Burns  is  laid. 


*  The  ode  on  the  death  of  Thomson,  the  last  written,  I 
believe,  of  the  poems  which  were  published  during  his  life- 
time.—  Wordsworth^ s  note. 


64  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

And  have  I  then  thy  bones  so  near, 
And  thou  forbidden  to  appear? 
As  if  it  were  thyself  that's  here 

I  shrink  with  pain ; 
And  both  my  wishes  and  ray  fear 

Ahke  are  vain. 

Off  weight — nor  press  on  weight !— away 
Dark  thoughts  ! — they  came,  but  not  to  stay ; 
With  chastened  feeUngs  would  I  pay 

The  tribute  due 
To  him,  and  aught  that  hides  his  clay 

From  mortal  view. 

Fresh  as  the  flower,  whose  modest  worth 
He  sang,  his  genius  "glinted"  forth, 
Rose  like  a  star  that  touching  earth. 

For  so  it  seems. 
Doth  glorify  its  humble  birth 

With  matchless  beams. 

The  piercing  eye,  the  thoughtful  brow, 

The  struggling  heart,  where  be  they  now? — 

Full  soon  the  Aspirant  of  the  plough. 

The  prompt,  the  brave, 
Slept,  with  the  obscurest,  in  the  low 

And  silent  grave. 

I  mourned  with  thousands,  but  as  one 
More  deeply  grieved,  for  He  was  gone. 
Whose  light  I  hailed  when  first  it  shone, 

And  showed  my  youth 
How  Verse  may  build  a  princely  throne 

On  humble  truth. 

Alas !  where'er  the  current  tends. 
Regret  pursues,  and  with  it  blends, — 
Huge  Criffel's  hoary  top  ascends 

By  Skiddaw  seen, — 
Neighbours  we  were,  and  loving  friends 

We  might  have  been  ; 


WORDSWORTH  65 

True  friends  though  diversely  incHned ; 
But  heart  with  heart  and  mind  with  mind, 
Where  the  main  fibres  are  entwined, 

Through  Nature's  skill, 
May  even  by  contraries  be  joined 

More  closely  still. 

The  tear  will  start,  and  let  it  flow ; 
Thou  "poor  Inhabitant  below," 
At  this  dread  moment — even  so — 

Might  we  together 
Have  sate  and  talked  where  gowans  blow, 

Or  on  wild  heather. 

What  treasures  would  have  then  been  placed 
Within  my  reach  ;  of  knowledge  graced 
By  fancy,  what  a  rich  repast  I 

But  why  go  on? — 
Oh !  spare  to  sweep,  thou  mournful  blast. 

His  grave  grass-grown. 

There,  too,  a  Son,  his  joy  and  pride, 
(Not  three  weeks  past  the  stripling  died) 
Lies  gathered  to  his  Father's  side. 

Soul-moving  sight  I 
Yet  one  to  which  is  not  denied 

Some  sad  delight. 

For  Ae  is  safe,  a  quiet  bed 

Hath  early  found  among  the  dead. 

Harboured  where  none  can  be  misled. 

Wronged  or  distrest ; 
And  surely  here  it  may  be  said 

That  such  are  blest. 

And  oh  for  Thee,  by  pitying  grace 
Checked  oft-times  in  a  devious  race. 
May  He  who  halloweth  the  place 

Where  Man  is  laid 
Receive  thy  spirit  in  the  embrace 

For  which  it  prayed  1 

E 


66  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Sighing  I  turned  away ;  but  ere 
Night  fell  I  heard,  or  seemed  to  hear, 
Music  that  sorrow  comes  not  near, 

A  ritual  hymn. 
Chanted  in  love  that  casts  out  fear 
By  Seraphim. 

William  Wordsworth, 
1770-1850. 


THOUGHTS 

Suggested  the  day  following,  on  the  banks  of  Nith, 
near  the  poet's  residence 

[T/ie  Poems  of  William  Wordsworth,  D.C.L., 
Foct- Laureate,  etc.,   1845.] 

Too  frail  to  keep  the  lofty  vow 

That  must  have  followed  when  his  brow 

Was  wreathed — "The  Vision"  tells  us  how — 

With  holly  spray. 
He  faultered,  drifted  to  and  fro, 

And  passed  away. 

Well  might  such  thoughts,  dear  Sister,  throng 
Our  minds  when,  lingering  all  too  long, 
Over  the  grave  of  Burns  we  hung 

In  social  grief — 
Indulged  as  if  it  were  a  wrong 

To  seek  relief. 

But,  leaving  each  unquiet  theme 

Where  gentlest  judgments  may  misdeem, 

And  prompt  to  welcome  every  gleam 

Of  good  and  fair, 
Let  us  beside  this  limpid  Stream 

Breathe  hopeful  air. 


WORDSWORTH  67 

Enough  of  sorrow,  wreck,  and  blight ; 
Think  rather  of  those  moments  bright 
When  to  the  consciousness  of  right 

His  course  was  true. 
When  Wisdom  prospered  in  his  sight, 

And  virtue  grew. 

Yes,  freely  let  our  hearts  expand. 
Freely  as  in  youth's  season  bland, 
When  side  by  side,  his  Book  in  hand. 

We  wont  to  stray. 
Our  pleasure  varying  at  command 

Of  each  sweet  Lay. 
How  oft  inspired  must  he  have  trod 
These  pathways,  yon  far-stretching  road ! 
There  lurks  his  home ;  in  that  Abode, 

With  mirth  elate. 
Or  in  his  nobly-pensive  mood, 

The  Rustic  sate. 

Proud  thoughts  that  Image  overawes. 

Before  it  humbly  let  us  pause, 

And  ask  of  Nature,  from  what  cause, 

And  by  what  rules 
She  trained  her  Burns  to  win  applause 

That  shames  the  Schools. 

Through  busiest  street  and  loneliest  glen 

Are  felt  the  flashes  of  his  pen  ; 

He  rules  'mid  winter  snows,  and  when 

Bees  fill  their  hives ; 
Deep  in  the  general  heart  of  men 

His  power  survives. 
What  need  of  fields  in  some  far  clime 
Where  Heroes,  Sages,  Bards  sublime, 
And  all  that  fetched  the  flowing  rhyme 

From  genuine  springs, 
Shall  dwell  together  till  old  Time 

Folds  up  his  v/ings? 


68  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Sweet  Mercy !  to  the  gates  of  Heaven 
This  Minstrel  lead,  his  sins  forgiven; 
The  rueful  conflict,  the  heart  riven 

With  vain  endeavour. 
And  memory  of  Earth's  bitter  leaven, 

Effaced  for  ever. 

But  vyhy  to  Him  confine  the  prayer, 
When  kindred  thoughts  and  yearnings  bear 
On  the  frail  heart  the  purest  share 

With  all  that  live  ?— 
The  best  of  what  we  do  and  are, 
Just  God,  forgive! 

William  Wordsworth, 
1770-1850, 


ON  SEEING  A  WOUNDED  HARE  LIMP  BY  ME 
WHICH  A  FELLOW  HAD  JUST  SHOT  AT 

[From   "  Foews  chiefly   in   the   Scottish  Dialect.       By   Robert 
Burns.     In  two  volumes.     Edinburgh^  1 793. "] 

Inhuman  man !  curse  on  thy  barb'rous  art. 
And  blasted  be  thy  murder-aiming  eye  I 
May  never  pity  soothe  thee  with  a  sigh, 

Nor  ever  pleasure  glad  thy  cruel  heart! 

Go,  live,  poor  wanderer  of  the  wood  and  field, 
The  bitter  little  that  of  life  remains : 
No  more  the  thickening  brakes  and  verdant  plains 

To  thee  shall  home,  or  food,  or  pastime  yield. 

Seek,  mangled  wretch,  some  place  of  wonted  rest. 
No  more  of  rest,  but  now  thy  dying  bed ! 
The  sheltering  rushes  whistling  o'er  thy  head. 

The  cold  earth  with  thy  bloody  bosom  prest 


BURNS  69 

Oft  as  by  winding  Nith,  I,  musing,  wait 
The  sober  eve,  or  hail  the  cheerful  dawn, 
I  '11  miss  thee  sporting  o'er  the  dewy  lawn. 
And  curse  the  ruffian's  aim,  and  mourn  thy  hapless  fate. 

Robert  Bums, 
1759-1796, 
¥ 

A  BARD'S  EPITAPH 

[From   ''Poems   chiefly   in   the   Scottish   Dialect.      By   Robert 
Btcrns.     Kilmarnock,  1786."] 

Is  there  a  whim-inspired  fool, 
Owre  fast  for  thought,  owre  hot  for  rule, 
Owre  blate  to  seek,  owre  proud  to  snool, 

Let  him  draw  near ; 
And  owre  this  grassy  heap  sing  dool. 

And  drap  a  tear. 

Is  there  a  Bard  of  rustic  song, 
Who,  noteless,  steals  the  crowds  among. 
That  weekly  this  area  throng, 

O,  pass  not  by ! 
But,  with  a  frater-feeling  strong. 

Here,  heave  a  sigh. 

Is  there  a  man,  whose  judgment  clear, 
Can  others  teach  the  course  to  steer, 
Yet  runs,  himself,  life's  mad  career. 

Wild  as  the  wave ; 
Here  pause— and,  thro'  the  starting  tear. 

Survey  this  grave. 

The  poor  Inhabitant  below 
Was  quick  to  learn,  and  wise  to  know, 
And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow, 

And  softer  flame  ( 
But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low. 

And  stain'd  his  name  I 


70  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Reader,  attend — whether  thy  soul 
Soars  fancy's  flights  beyond  the  pole, 
Or  darkling  grubs  this  earthly  hole. 
In  low  pursuit ; 
Know,  prudent,  cautious,  self/control, 
Is  wisdom's  root. 

Robert  Burns, 
^  1759-1796, 

MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH   OF  CHATTERTON 

[  T/ie  Poetical  Works  of  S.    T.  Coleridge. 
In  three  volumes,  1829.] 

O  what  a  wonder  seems  the  fear  of  death, 

Seeing  how  gladly  we  all  sink  to  sleep, 

Babes,  Children,  Youths,  and  Men, 

Night  following  night  for  threescore  years  and  ten ! 

But  doubly  strange,  where  life  is  but  a  breath 

To  sigh  and  pant  with,  up  Want's  rugged  steep. 

Away,  Grim  Phantom !  Scorpion  king,  away ! 

Reserve  thy  terrors,  and  thy  stings  display 

For  coward  Wealth  and  Guilt  in  robes  of  State  I 

Lo  !  by  the  grave  I  stand  of  one  for  whom 

A  prodigal  Nature  and  a  niggard  Doom 

(That  all  bestowing,  this  withholding  all) 

Made  each  chance  knell  from  distant  spire  or  dome 

Sound  like  a  seeking  Mother's  anxious  call. 

Return,  poor  Child  !     Home,  weary  Truant,  home ! 

Thee,  Chatterton !  these  unblest  stones  protect 
From  want,  and  the  bleak  freezings  of  neglect. 
Too  long  before  the  vexing  Storm-blast  driven 
Here  hast  thou  found  repose !  beneath  this  sod ! 
Thou  !   O  vain  word !  thou  dwell'st  not  with  the  clod  I 
Amid  the  shining  Host  of  the  Forgiven 
Thou  at  the  throne  of  mercy,  and  thy  GOD 
The  triumph  of  redeeming  Love  dost  Hymn 
(Believe  it,  O  my  Soul  1)  to  harps  of  Seraphim. 


COLERIDGE  71 

Yet  oft,  perforce  ('tis  suffering  Nature's  call), 
I  weep  that  heaven-born  Genius  so  should  fall; 
And  oft,  in  Fancy's  saddest  hour,  my  soul, 
Averted  shudders  at  the  poisoned  bowl. 
Now  groans  my  sickening  heart,  as  still  I  view 

Thy  corse  of  livid  hue ; 
Now  indignation  checks  the  feeble  sigh. 
Or  flashes  through  the  tear  that  glistens  in  mine  eye  I 

Is  this  the  land  of  song-ennobled  line  ? 

Is  this  the  land,  where  Genius  ne'er  in  vain 

Poured  forth  his  lofty  strain  ? 
Ah  me !  yet  Spenser,  gentlest  bard  divine, 
Beneath  chill  Disappointment's  shade, 
His  weary  limbs  in  lonely  anguish  laid ; 

And  o'er  her  darling  dead 

Pity,  hopeless,  hung  her  head. 
While  '"mid  the  pelting  of  that  merciless  storm," 
Sunk  to  the  cold  earth  Otway's  famished  form ! 

Sublime  of  thought,  and  confident  of  fame, 

From  vales  where  Avon  winds  the  Minstrel  came. 

Light-hearted  youth  !  aye,  as  he  hastes  along, 

He  meditates  the  future  song. 
How  dauntless  JElla  frayed  the  Dacyan  foe; 

And  while  the  numbers,  flowing  strong. 
In  eddies  whirl,  in  surges  throng, 
Exulting  in  the  spirits'  genial  throe 
In  tides  of  power  his  life-blood  seems  to  flow. 

And  now  his  cheeks  with  deeper  ardours  flame. 

His  eyes  have  glorious  meanings,  that  declare 

More  than  the  light  of  outward  day  shines  there, 

A  holier  triumph  and  a  sterner  aim ! 

Wings  grow  within  him ;  and  he  soars  above 

Or  Bard's  or  Minstrel's  lay  of  war  or  love. 

Friend  to  the  friendless,  to  the  sufferer  health. 

He  hears  the  widow's  prayer,  the  good  man's  praise ; 


72  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

To  scenes  of  bliss  transmutes  his  fancied  wealth, 
And  young  and  old  shall  now  see  happy  days. 
On  many  a  waste  he  bids  trim  gardens  rise, 
Gives  the  blue  sky  to  many  a  prisoner's  eyes ; 
And  now  in  wrath  he  grasps  the  patriot  steel. 
And  her  own  iron  rod  he  makes  Oppression  feel. 

Sweet  Flower  of  Hope  !  free  Nature's  genial  child ! 

That  didst  so  fair  disclose  thy  early  bloom, 

Filling  the  wide  air  with  a  rich  perfume ! 

For  thee  in  vain  all  heavenly  aspects  smiled 

From  the  hard  world  brief  respite  could  they  win,— 

The    frost    nipped    sharp    without,    the    canker    preyed 

within ! 
Ah !  where  are  fled  the  charms  of  vernal  Grace, 
And  Joy's  wild  gleams  that  lightened  o'er  thy  face? 
Youth  of  tumultuous  soul,  and  haggard  eye ! 
Thy  wasted  form,  thy  hurried  steps  I  view. 
On  thy  wan  forehead  starts  the  lethal  dew. 
And  oh  !  the  anguish  of  that  shuddering  sigh ! 

Such  were  the  struggles  of  the  gloomy  hour, 
When  Care,  of  withered  brow. 
Prepared  the  poison's  death-cold  power : 
Already  tc  thy  lips  was  raised  the  bowl. 

When  near  thee  stood  Affection  meek 

(Her  bosom  bare,  and  v/ildly  pale  her  cheek). 
Thy  sullen  gaze  she  bade  thee  roll 

On  scenes  that  well  might  melt  thy  soul ; 
Thy  native  cot  she  flashed  upon  thy  view. 
Thy  native  cot,  where  still,  at  close  of  day. 
Peace  smiling  sate,  and  listened  to  thy  lay  ; 
Thy  sister's  shrieks  she  bade  thee  hear. 
And  mark  thy  mother's  thrilling  tear ; 

See,  see  her  breast's  convulsive  throe. 

Her  silent  agony  of  woe ! 
Ah  I  dash  the  poisoned  chalice  from  thy  hand  1 


COLERIDGE  73 

And  thou  hadst  dashed  it  at  her  soft  command, 

But  that  Despair  and  Indignation  rose, 

And  told  again  the  story  of  thy  woes  ; 

Told  the  keen  insult  of  the  unfeeling  heart. 

The  dread  dependence  on  the  low-born  mind ; 

Told  every  pang  with  which  thy  soul  must  smart; 

Neglect,  and  grinning  Scorn,  and  Want  combined  I 

Recoiling  quick,  thou  bad'st  the  friend  of  pain 

Roll  the  black  tide  of  Death  through  every  freezing  vein  ! 

O  Spirit  blest! 
Whether  the  Eternal's  throne  around. 
Amidst  the  blaze  of  Seraphim, 
Thou  pourest  forth  the  grateful  hymn  ; 
Or  soaring  thro'  the  blest  domain 
Enrapturest  Angels  with  thy  strain,— 
Grant  me,  like  thee,  the  lyre  to  sound  ; 
Like  thee  with  fire  divine  to  glow  ; — 
But  ah !  when  rage  the  waves  of  woe, 
Grant  me  with  firmer  breast  to  meet  their  hate. 
And  soar  beyond  the  storm  with  upright  eye  elate ! 

Ye  woods  !  that  wave  o'er  Avon's  rocky  steep, 
To  Fancy's  ear  sweet  is  your  murmuring  deep ! 
For  here  she  loves  the  cypress  wreath  to  weave  ; 
Watching,  with  wistful  eye,  the  saddening  tints  of  eve. 
Here,  far  from  men,  amid  this  pathless  grove, 
In  solemn  thought  the  Minstrel  wont  to  rove. 
Like  star-beam  on  the  slow  sequestered  tide 
Lone-glittering,  through  the  high  tree  branching  wide. 
And  here,  in  Inspiration's  eager  hour, 
When  most  the  big  soul  feels  the  mastering  power. 
These  wilds,  these  caverns  roaming  o'er, 
Round  which  the  screaming  sea-gulls  soar 
With  wild  unequal  steps  he  passed  along. 
Oft  pouring  on  the  winds  a  broken  song : 
Anon,  upon  some  rough  rock's  fearful  brow 
Would  pause  abrupt — and  gaze  upon  the  waves  below. 


74  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Poor  Chatterton !  he  sorrows  for  thy  fate 

Who  would  have  praised  and  loved  thee,  ere  too  late. 

Poor  Chatterton  I  farewell  I  of  darkest  hues 

This  chaplet  cast  I  on  thy  unshaped  tomb; 

But  dare  no  longer  on  the  sad  theme  muse, 

Lest  kindred  woes  persuade  a  kindred  doom  : 

For  oh  !  big  gall-drops,  shook  from  Folly's  wing, 

Have  blackened  the  fair  promise  of  my  spring  ; 

And  the  stern  Fate  transpierced  with  viewless  dart 

The  last  pale  Hope  that  shivered  at  my  heart ! 

Hence,  gloomy  thoughts !  no  more  my  soul  shall  dwell 

On  joys  that  were  1    No  more  endure  to  weigh 

The  shame  and  anguish  of  the  evil  day, 

Wisely  forgetful  I    O'er  the  ocean  swell 

Sublime  of  Hope  I  seek  the  cottaged  dell 

Where  Virtue  calm  ,^ith  careless  step  may  stray  ; 

And,  dancing  to  the  moon-light  roundelay, 

The  wizard  Passions  weave  a  holy  spell ! 

O  Chatterton !  that  thou  wert  yet  alive ! 

Sure  thou  would'st  spread  the  canvas  to  the  gale, 

And  love  with  us  the  tinkling  team  to  drive 

O'er  peaceful  Freedom's  undivided  dale  ; 

And  we,  at  sober  eve,  would  round  thee  throng, 

Hanging,  enraptured,  on  thy  stately  song, 

And  greet  with  smiles  the  young-eyed  Poesy 

All  deftly  masked  as  hoar  Antiquity. 

Alas,  vain  Phantasies!  the  fleeting  brood 

Of  Woe  self-solaced  in  her  dreamy  mood  ! 

Yet  will  I  love  to  follow  the  sweet  dream. 

Where  Susquehana  pours  his  untamed  stream  ; 

And  on  some  hill,  whose  forest-frowning  side 

Waves  o'er  the  murmurs  of  his  calmer  tide. 

Will  raise  a  solemn  Cenotaph  to  thee, 

Sweet  Harper  of  time-shrouded  Minstrelsy  ! 

And  there,  soothed  sadly  by  the  dirgeful  wind, 

Muse  on  the  sore  ills  I  had  left  behind. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge, 
1772-1834, 


MRS   BROWNING  75 

COWPER'S  GRAVE 

[From    "  The  Seraphim  and  other  Poems.     By  Elizabeth   B. 
Barrett.     London,   1838."] 

I 

It  is  a  place  where  poets  crowned  may  feel  the  heart's 

decaying ; 
It  is  a  place  where  happy  saints  may  weep  amid  their 

praying ; 
Yet  let   the   grief  and    humbleness   as    low   as   silence 

languish : 
Earth  surely  now  may  give  her  calm  to  whom  she  gave 

her  anguish. 

II 

O  poets,  from  a  maniac's  tongue  was  poured  the  death- 
less singing ! 

O  Christians,  at  your  cross  of  hope  a  hopeless  hand  was 
clinging ! 

O  men,  this  man  in  brotherhood  your  weary  paths 
beguiling. 

Groaned  inly  while  he  taught  you  peace,  and  died  while 
ye  were  smiling ! 

Ill 

And  now,  what  time  ye  all  may  read  through  dimming 
tears  his  story, 

How  discord  on  the  music  fell  and  darkness  on  the 
glory, 

And  how  when,  one  by  one,  sweet  sounds  and  wander- 
ing lights  departed. 

He  wore  no  less  a  loving  face  because  so  broken- 
hearted. 

IV 

He  shall  be  strong  to  sanctify  the  poet's  high  vocation. 
And     bow    the    meekest     Christian    down    in     meeker 
adoration ; 


76  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Nor  ever  shall  he  be,  in  praise,  by  wise  or  good  forsaken, 
Named  softly  as  the  household  name  of  one  whom  God 
hath  taken. 

V 

With  quiet  sadness  and  no  gloom  I  learn  to  think  upon 

him. 
With  meekness  that  is  gratefulness  to  God  whose  heaven 

hath  won  him. 
Who  suffered  once  the  madness-cloud  to   His  own  love 

to  blind  him, 
But  gently  led   the  blind  along  where  breath   and   bird 

could  find  him  ; 

VI 

And  wrought  within  his  shattered  brain  such  quick  poetic 
senses 

As  hills  have  language  for,  and  stars  harmonious  in- 
fluences : 

The  pulse  of  dew  upon  the  grass  kept  his  within  its 
number. 

And  silent  shadows  from  the  trees  refreshed  him  like  a 
slumber. 

VII 

Wild  timid  hares  were  drawn  from  woods  to  share  his 

home-caresses, 
Uplooking  to  his  human  eyes  with  sylvan  tendernesses : 
The  very  world,   by   God's  constraint,  from  falsehood's 

ways  removing. 
Its   women   and   its   men  became,  beside  him,  true  and 

loving. 

VIII 

And  though,  in  blindness,  he  remained  unconscious  of 
that  guiding, 


MRS  BROWNING  77 

And  things  provided  came  without   the  sweet  sense  of 

providing, 
He  testified  this  solemn  truth,  while  phrenzy  desolated, 
— Nor  man  nor  nature  satisfies  whom  only  God  created. 

IX 

Like  a  sick  child  that  knoweth  not  his  mother  while  she 

blesses. 
And  drops  upon  his  burning  brow  the  coolness  of  her 

kisses,— 
That    turns    his    fevered    eyes    around  —  "  My    mother  1 

Where's  my  mother?" — 
As  if  such  tender  words  and  deeds  could  come  from  any 

other  I— 

X 

The  fever  gone,  with  leaps  of  heart  he  sees  her  bending 

o'er  him. 
Her  face  all  pale  from  watchful  love,  the  un weary  love 

she  bore  him  I 
Thus  woke  the  poet  from  the  dream  his  life's  long  fever 

gave  him, 
Beneath  those  deep  pathetic  Eyes  which  closed  in  death 

to  save  him. 

XI 

Thus?   oh,  not  thus!  no  type  of  earth  can  image  that 

awaking. 
Wherein  he  scarcely  heard   the  chant   of  seraphs,  round 

him  breaking. 
Or  felt  the  new  immortal  throb  of  soul  from  body  parted. 
But  felt  these  eyes  alone,  and  knew — "My  Saviour!  not 

deserted ! " 

XII 

Deserted  I    Who   hath   dreamt   that    when   the   cross   in 

darkness  rested, 
Upon  the  Victim's  hidden  face  no  love  was  manifested? 


78  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

What  frantic  hands  outstretched  have  e'er  the  atoning 

drops  averted? 
What  tears  have  washed  them  from  the  soul,  that  one 

should  be  deserted? 

XIII 
Deserted !   God   could   separate  from   His  own  essence 

rather  ; 
And  Adam's  sins  have  swept  between  the  righteous  Son 

and  Father : 
Yea,  once   Immanuel's  orphaned  cry   His  universe  hath 

shaken — 
It  went  up  single,  echoless,  "My  God,  I  am  forsakenl" 

XIV 

It  went  up  from  the  Holy's  lips  amid  His  lost  creation. 
That,   of  the  lost,   no  son   should  use  those  words   of 

desolation ! 
That  earth's  worst  phrenzies,  marring  hope,  should  mar 

not  hope's  fruition, 
And  I,  on  Cowper's  grave,  should  see  his  rapture  in  a 

vision. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browniag, 

1806-1861. 

ON   THE   DEATH    OF   MR   CRASHAW 

\^First  printed  in  the  folio  "  Poems  "  of  1656.] 

Poet  and  Saint  1  to  thee  alone  are  given 

The  two  most  sacred  names  of  Earth  and  Heaven, 

The  hard  and  rarest  union  which  can  be, 

Next  that  of  Godhead  with  Humanity. 

Long  did  the  Muses  banish'd  slaves  abide, 

And  built  vain  pyramids  to  mortal  pride ; 

Like  Moses  thou  (though  spells  and  charms  vrithstand) 

Hast  brought  them  nobly  home  back  to  their  Holy  Land. 


COWLEY  79 

Ah  wretched  we,  poets  of  earth  1  but  thou 
Wert  living  the  same  poet  which  thou  'rt  now  ; 
Whilst  angels  sing  to  thee  their  airs  divine, 
And  joy  in  an  applause  so  great  as  thine ; 
Equal  society  with  them  to  hold, 
Thou  need'st  not  make  new  songs,  but  say  the  old ; 
And  they  (kind  spirits  ! )  shall  all  rejoice  to  see 
How  little  less  than  they  exalted  man  may  be. 

Still  the  old  Heathen  gods  in  Numbers  dwell ; 
The  heavenliest  thing  on  earth  still  keeps  up  hell ! 
Nor  have  we  yet  quite  purged  the  Christian  land ; 
Still  idols  here,  like  calves  at  Bethel,  stand. 
And,  though  Pan's  death  long  since  all  oracles  breaks. 
Yet  still  in  rhyme  the  fiend  Apollo  speaks; 
Nay,  with  the  worst  of  heathen  dotage,  we 
(Vain  men  ! )  the  monster  Woman  deify  ; 
Find  stars,  and  tie  our  fates  there  in  a  face. 
And  paradise  in  them,  by  whom  we  lost  it,  place. 
What  different  faults  corrupt  our  Muses  thus? 
Wanton  as  girls,  as  old  wives  fabulous ! 

Thy  spotless  Muse,  like  Mary,  did  contain 
The  boundless  Godhead ;  she  did  well  disdain 
That  her  eternal  verse  employed  should  be 
On  a  less  subject  than  eternity  ; 
And  for  a  sacred  mistress  scorned  to  take, 
But  her  whom  God  himself  scorned  not  his  spouse  to  make. 
It  (in  a  kind)  her  miracle  did  do  ; 
A  fruitful  mother  was,  and  virgin  too. 

How  well  (blest  swan!)  did  Fate  contrive  thy  death, 
And  made  thee  render  up  thy  tuneful  breath 
In  thy  great  mistress'  arms,  thou  most  divine 
And  richest  offering  of  Loretto's  shrine ! 
Where,  like  some  holy  sacrifice  t'  expire, 
A  fever  burns  thee,  and  Love  lights  the  fire. 
Angels  (they  say)  brought  the  famed  chapel  there, 
And  bore  the  sacred  load  in  triumph  through  the  air  : 
'Tis  surer  much  they  brought  thee  there,  and  they. 
And  thou,  their  charge,  went  singing  all  the  way. 


8o  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Pardon,  my  Mother-church  1  if  I  consent 
That  angels  led  him  when  from  thee  he  went ; 
For  ev'n  in  error  sure  no  danger  is, 
When  joined  with  so  much  piety  as  his. 
Ah,  mighty  God  !  with  shame  I  speak 't,  and  grief, 
Ah,  that  our  greatest  faults  were  in  belief! 
And  our  weak  reason  were  ev'n  weaker  yet, 
Rather  than  thus  our  wills  too  strong  for  it ! 
His  faith,  perhaps,  in  some  nice  tenets  might 
Be  wrong ;  his  life,  I  'm  sure,  was  in  the  right ; 
And  I  myself  a  Catholic  will  be. 
So  far  at  least,  great  Saint !  to  pray  to  thee. 
Hail,  bard  triumphant  1  and  some  care  bestow 
On  us,  the  poets  militant  below  ! 
Opposed  by  our  old  enemy,  adverse  Chance, 
Attacked  by  Envy  and  by  Ignorance; 
Enchained  by  Beauty,  tortured  by  Desires, 
Exposed  by  Tyrant-Love  to  savage  beasts  and  fires. 
Thou  from  low  earth  in  nobler  flames  didst  rise, 
And,  like  Elijah,  mount  alive  the  skies. 
Elisha-like  (but  with  a  wish  much  less. 
More  fit  thy  greatness  and  my  littleness) 
Lo  1  here  I  beg  (I,  whom  thou  once  didst  prove 
So  humble  to  esteem,  so  good  to  love) 
Not  that  thy  spirit  might  on  me  doubled  be, 
I  ask  but  half  thy  mighty  spirit  for  me  : 
And,  when  my  Muse  soars  with  so  strong  a  wring, 
'Twill  learn  of  things  divine,  and  first  of  thee,  to  sing. 

Abraham  Cowley, 
1618-1667. 


CONSTABLE  8i 

TO  SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY'S  SOUL 

Sonnet  prefixed  to  Sidney's  Apology  for  Poetry 

{^First  printed  in  "An  Apologie  for  Foe  trie.  Written  by  the 
right  noble,  vertiwtis,  and  learned  Sir  Fhillip  Sidney, 
Knight.  Odi  profaniim  viilgns  et  arceo.  At  London 
Frinted  for  Henry  Olney,"  etc.,   1 595-1 

Give  pardon,  blessed  soule !  to  my  bold  cries, 

If  they,  importune,  interrupt  thy  song. 

Which  now  with  joyful  notes  thou  singst  among 
The  angel-quiristers  of  the  heavenly  skies. 
Give  pardon  eke,  sweet  soul  1  to  my  slow  cries. 

That  since  I  saw  thee  now  it  is  so  long  ; 

And  yet  the  tears  that  unto  thee  belong. 
To  thee  as  yet  they  did  not  sacrifice ; 
I  did  not  know  that  thou  wert  dead  before, 

I  did  not  feel  the  grief  I  did  sustain ; 
The  greater  stroke  astonisheth  the  more. 

Astonishment  takes  from  us  sense  of  pain : 
I  stood  amazed  when  others  tears  begun 

And  now  begin  to  weep  when  they  have  done. 

Henry  Constable, 
1555-1615. 


AN  ELEGY,  OR  FRIEND'S  PASSION  FOR  HIS 
ASTROPHEL 

Written  upon  the  death  of   the  Right   Honourable  Sir 
Phillip  Sidney,  Knight,  Lord  Governour  of  Flushing. 

[First  printed  in  "  The  Fhoenix  Nest.  Built  z<p  with  the 
most  rare  and  refined  workes  of  Noble  men,  woorthy 
Knights,  gallant  Gentlemeti,  blasters  of  Arts  and  brave 
Schollers.  Full  of  varietie,  excellent  invention,  afid  singular 
delight,"  etc.  1593.     Reprinted  with  Spenser's  Astrophel.'\ 

As  then,  no  wind  at  all  there  blew. 
No  swelling  cloud  accloyed  the  air. 


82  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

The  sky,  like  grass  of  watchet  hue, 
Reflected  Phoebus'  golden  hair  ; 

The  garnished  tree  no  pendant  stirred, 
No  voice  was  heard  of  any  bird. 

There  might  you  see  the  burly  Bear, 

The  Lion  king,  the  Elephant, 

The  maiden  Unicorn  was  there, 

So  was  Actaeon's  horned  plant: 

And  what  of  wild  or  tame  are  found. 
Were  couched  in  order  on  the  ground. 

Alcides'  speckled  poplar  tree  ; 

The  palm  that  Monarchs  do  obtain  ; 

With  love-juice  stained  the  mulberry, 

The  fruit  that  dews  the  poet's  brain ; 
And  Plnllis'  filbert  there  away 
Compared  with  myrtle  and  the  bay : 

The  tree  that  coffins  doth  adorn, 
With  stately  height  threat'ning  the  sky, 
And,  for  the  bed  of  love  forlorn, 
The  black  and  doleful  ebony  : 

All  in  a  circle  compassed  were 

Like  to  an  amphitheatre. 

Upon  the  branches  of  those  trees, 

The  airy  winged  people  sat. 

Distinguished  in  odd  degrees ; 

One  sort  is  this,  another  that. 

Here  Philomel  that  knows  full  well 
What  force  and  wit  in  love  doth  dwell. 

The  sky-bred  Eagle,  royal  bird. 

Perched  there  upon  an  oak  above ; 

The  Turtle  by  him  never  stirred. 

Example  of  immortal  love. 

The  Swan  that  sings  about  to  die. 
Leaving  Meander  stood  thereby. 


ROYDON  83 

And  that  which  was  of  wonder  most, 

The  Phoenix  left  sweet  Araby  ; 

And  on  a  Cedar  in  this  coast, 

Built  up  her  tomb  of  spicery, 
As  I  conjecture  by  the  same, 
Prepared  to  take  her  dying  flame. 

In  midst  and  centre  of  this  plot, 

I  saw  one  grovelling  on  the  grass  ; 

A  man  or  stone,  I  knew  not  that ; 

No  stone ;  of  man  the  figure  was. 

And  yet  I  could  not  count  him  one, 
More  than  the  image  made  of  stone. 

At  length  I  might  perceive  him  rear 

His  body  on  his  elbow  end  : 

Earthly  and  pale  with  ghastly  cheer, 

Upon  his  knees  he  upward  tend  ; 

Seeming  like  one  in  uncouth  stound 
To  be  ascending  out  the  ground. 

A  grievous  sigh  forthwith  he  throws. 
As  might  have  torn  the  vital  strings ; 
Then  down  his  cheeks  the  tears  so  flows 
As  doth  the  stream  of  many  springs. 

So  thunder  rends  the  cloud  in  twain. 

And  makes  a  passage  for  the  rain. 
Incontinent  with  trembling  sound, 
He  woefully  'gan  to  complain  : 
Such  were  the  accents  as  might  wound, 
And  tear  a  diamond  rock  in  twain ; 

After  his  throbs  did  somewhat  stay, 

Thus  heavily  he  'gan  to  say 

"O  sun!"  said  he,  seeing  the  sun, 
"On  wretched  me,  why  dost  thou  shine? 
My  star  is  fallen,  my  comfort  done  ; 
Out  is  the  apple  of  my  eyen. 

Shine  upon  those  possess  delight, 
And  let  me  live  in  endless  night! 


84  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

"O  grief!  that  liest  upon  my  soul, 
As  heavy  as  a  mount  of  lead  ; 
The  remnant  of  my  life  control, 
Consort  me  quickly  with  the  dead  I 

Half  of  this  heart,  this  sprite  and  will, 
Died  in  the  breast  of  Astrophil. 

"And  you  compassionate  of  my  woe. 
Gentle  birds,  beasts,  and  shady  trees  ! 
I  am  assured  ye  long  to  know 
What  be  the  sorrows  me  aggrieves ; 
Listen  ye  then  to  that  ensu'th, 
And  hear  a  tale  of  tears  and  ruth. 

"You  knew,  who  knew  not  Astrophil? 

(That  I  should  live  to  say  I  knew, 

And  have  rot  in  possession  still ! ) 

Things  known,  permit  me  to  renew : 

Of  him  you  know  his  merit  such, 

I  cannot  say,  you  hear  too  much. 

"Within  these  woods  of  Arcady, 
His  chief  delight  and  pleasure  took ; 
And  on  the  mountain  Partheny, 
Upon  the  crystal  liquid  brook. 

The  Muses  met  him  every  day, 

That  taught  him  sing,  to  write,  and  say. 

"When  he  descended  down  the  mount. 
His  personage  seemed  most  divine  ; 
A  thousand  graces  one  might  count 
Upon  his  lovely  cheerful  eyen ; 

To  hear  him  speak,  and  sweetly  smile  ; 

You  were  in  Paradise  the  while. 

"A  sweet  attractive  kind  of  grace  ; 
A  full  assurance  given  by  looks  ; 
Continual  comfort  in  a  face. 
The  lineaments  of  Gospel  books ; 

I  trow  that  countenance  cannot  lie. 
Whose  thoughts  are  legible  in  the  eye. 


ROYDON  85 

"Was  never  eye  did  see  that  face; 

Was  never  ear  did  hear  that  tongue; 

Was  never  mind  did  mind  his  grace  ; 

That  never  thought  the  travail  long : 

But  eyes  and  ears  and  every  thought, 
Were  with  his  sweet  perfections  caught. 

"O  God!  that  such  a  worthy  man, 
In  whom  so  rare  deserts  did  reign ; 
Desired  thus,  must  leave  us  then : 
And  we  to  wish  for  him  in  vain. 

O  could  the  stars  that  bred  that  wit, 

In  force  no  longer  fixed  sit. 

"Then  being  filled  with  learned  dew 

The  Muses  willed  him  to  love  : 

That  instrument  can  aptly  show. 

How  finely  our  conceits  will  move. 

As  Bacchus  opes  dissembled  hearts. 
So  love  sets  out  our  better  parts. 

"Stella,  a  nymph  within  this  wood. 
Most  rare,  and  rich  of  heavenly  bUss ; 
The  highest  in  his  fancy  stood, 
And  she  could  well  demerit  this. 

'Tis  likely,  they  acquainted  soon : 
He  was  a  sun,  and  she  a  moon. 

"  Our  Astrophil  did  Stella  love. 
O  Stella  !  vaunt  of  Astrophil  I 
Albeit  thy  graces  gods  may  move  ; 
Where  wilt  thou  find  an  Astrophil? 

The  rose  and  lily  have  their  prime  ; 

And  so  hath  beauty  but  a  time. 

"Although  thy  beauty  do  exceed 
In  common  sight  of  every  eye  ; 
Yet  in  his  poesies  when  we  read, 
It  is  apparent  more  thereby. 

He  that  hath  love  and  judgment  too. 
Sees  more  than  any  others  do. 


86  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

"Then  Astrophil  hath  honoured  thee; 
For  when  thy  body  is  extinct, 
Thy  graces  shall  eternal  be 
And  live  by  virtue  of  his  ink. 

For  by  his  verses  he  doth  give 
To  shortlived  beauty  aye  to  live. 

"Above  all  others  this  is  he, 
Which  erst  approved  in  his  song 
That  love  and  honour  might  agree, 
And  that  pure  love  will  do  no  wrong. 
Sweet  saints !  it  is  no  sin  nor  blame 
To  love  a  man  of  virtuous  name. 

"  Did  never  love  so  sweetly  breathe 
In  any  mortal  breast  before  ; 
Did  never  Muse  inspire  beneath, 
A  poet's  brain  with  finer  store  ; 

He  wrote  of  love  with  high  conceit ; 
And  beauty  reared  above  her  height. 

"Then  Pallas  afterward  attired 
Our  Astrophil  with  her  device. 
Whom  in  his  armour  heaven  admired, 
As  of  the  nation  of  the  skies  : 

He  sparkled  in  his  arms  afars, 

As  he  were  dight  with  fiery  stars." 

"The  blaze  whereof,  when  Mars  beheld 
(An  envious  eye  doth  see  afar) 
'Such  majesty,'  quoth  he,  *is  seld. 
Such  majesty,  my  mart  may  mar. 
Perhaps  this  may  a  suitor  be 
To  set  Mars  by  his  deity  ?  ' 

"In  this  surmise,  he  made  with  speed 
An  iron  can,  wherein  he  put 
The  thunders  that  in  clouds  do  breed  ; 
The  flame  and  bolt  together  shut, 

With  privy  force  burst  out  again  ; 
And  so  our  Astrophil  was  slain." 


ROYDON  87 

His  word,  "was  slain,"  straightway  did  move, 

And  Nature's  inward  life-strings  twitch ; 

The  sky  immediately  above 

Was  dimmed  with  hideous  clouds  of  pitch  ; 
The  wrastling  winds,  from  out  the  ground 
Filled  all  the  air  with  rattling  sound. 

The  bending  trees  expressed  a  groan, 

And  sighed  the  sorrow  of  his  fall ; 

The  forest  beasts  made  ruthful  moan  ; 

The  birds  did  tune  their  mourning  call. 
And  Philomel  for  Astrophil, 
Unto  her  notes,  annexed  a  "phil." 

The  turtle  dove  with  tones  of  ruth. 

Showed  feeling  passion  of  his  death ; 

Methought  she  said  "I  tell  thee  truth, 

Was  never  he  that  drew  in  breath, 
Unto  his  love  more  trusty  found. 
Than  he  for  whom  our  griefs  abound." 

The  swan  that  was  in  presence  here, 

Began  his  funeral  dirge  to  sing ; 
"Good  things,"  quoth  he,  "may  scarce  appear; 

But  pass  away  with  speedy  wing. 
This  mortal  life  as  death  is  tried. 
And  death  gives  life,  and  so  he  died. 

The  general  sorrow  that  was  made 

Among  the  creatures  of  kind. 

Fired  the  Phoenix  where  she  laid. 

Her  ashes  flying  with  the  wind. 
So  as  I  might  with  reason  see 
That  such  a  Phoenix  ne'er  should  be. 

Haply,  the  cinders  driven  about, 
May  breed  an  offspring  near  that  kind  ; 
But  hardly  a  peer  to  that,  I  doubt : 
It  cannot  sink  into  my  mind 

That  under  branches  e'er  can  be. 

Of  worth  and  value  as  the  tree. 


88  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

The  eagle  marked  with  piercing  sight 
The  mournful  habit  of  the  place ; 
And  parted  thence  with  mounting  flight, 
To  signify  to  Jove  the  case : 

What  sorrow  Nature  doth  sustain, 

For  Astrophil,  by  envy  slain. 

And  while  I  followed  with  mine  eye 

The  flight  the  eagle  upward  took  ; 

All  things  did  vanish  by  and  by, 

And  disappeared  from  my  look. 

The  trees,  beasts,  birds  and  grove  were  gone: 
So  was  the  friend  that  made  this  moan. 

This  spectacle  had  firmly  wrought 
A  deep  compassion  in  my  sprite  ; 
My  molten  heart  issued  methought, 
In  streams  forth  at  mine  eyes  aright: 
And  here  my  pen  is  forced  to  shrink  ; 
My  tears  discolour  so  my  ink. 

Matthew  Roydon, 
floruit  1580-1622. 
9» 


AN  EPITAPH  ON  CLERE 

[^^Songes  andSonettcs  writteti  by  the  ryght  honorable  Lorde  Henry 
Howard,  late  Earle  of  Surrey,  and  other.  Apud  Richardum 
Totiel,  1557-"] 

Norfolk  sprung  thee,  Lambeth  holds  thee  dead; 
Clere,  of  the  Count  of  Cleremont,  thou  hight. 
Within  the  womb  of  Ormond's  race  thou  bred, 
And  sawst  thy  cousin  crowned  in  thy  sight. 
Shelton  for  love,  Surrey  for  lord  thou  chase ; 
(Aye,  me !  whilst  life  did  last  that  league  was  tender) 
Tracing  whose  steps  thou  sawest  Kelsal  blaze, 
Landrecy  burnt,  and  battered  Boulogne  render. 
At  Montreuil  gates,  hopeless  of  all  recure, 
Thine  Earl,  half  dead,  gave  in  thy  hand  his  will ; 


RALEIGH  89 

Which  cause  did  thee  this  pining  death  procure, 
Ere  summers  four  times  seven  thou  couldst  fulfil. 
Ah,  Clere !  if  love  had  booted,  care,  or  cost. 
Heaven  had  not  won,  nor  earth  so  timely  lost. 

Henry  Howard,  Earl  o{  Surrey, 
1517P-1547, 


AN  EPITAPH 

Upon   the    Right    Honourable    Sir    Phillip  Sidney, 
Knight,  Lord  Governor  of  Flushing 

[Originally printed  in  ike  '■'■Phoenix  Nest,"  1593;  reprinted 
•with  Spenser's  "  Astrophel."  It  is  ascribed  to  Raleigh,  on 
the  authority  of  Sir  John  Harrington,  and  Drunijnond  of 
Hawthornden.  \ 

To  praise  thy  life  or  wrail  thy  worthy  death  ; 
And  want  thy  wit,  thy  wit  pure,  high,  divine, 
Is  far  beyond  the  power  of  mortal  line. 
Nor  any  one  hath  worth  that  draweth  breath. 

Yet  rich  in  zeal,  though  poor  in  learning's  lore  ; 
And  friendly  care  obscured  in  secret  breast, 
And  love  that  envy  in  thy  life  supprest. 
Thy  dear  life  done,  and  death  hath  doubled  more. 

And  I,  that  in  thy  time  and  living  state. 
Did  only  praise  thy  virtues  in  my  thought ; 
As  one  that  seld  the  rising  sun  hath  sought : 
With  words  and  tears  now  wail  thy  timeless  fate. 

Drawn  was  thy  race  aright  from  princely  line. 
Nor  less  than  such  (by  gifts  that  Nature  gave. 
The  common  mother  that  all  creatures  have) 
Doth  virtue  show,  and  princely  lineage  shine. 

A  King  gave  thee  thy  name  ;  a  kingly  mind 
That  GOD  thee  gave :  who  found  it  now  too  dear 
For  this  base  world  ;  and  hath  resumed  it  near, 
To  sit  in  skies,  and  'sort  with  powers  divine. 


90  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Kent  thy  birth  days ;  and  Oxford  held  thy  youth. 
The  heavens  made  haste,  and  stayed  nor  years  nor  time ; 
The  fruits  of  age  grew  ripe  in  thy  first  prime  : 
Thy  will,  thy  words ;  thy  words,  the  seals  of  truth. 

Great  gifts  and  wisdom  rare  employed  thee  thence. 
To  treat  from  kings,  with  those  more  great  than  kings. 
Such  hope  men  had  to  lay  the  highest  things 
On  thy  wise  youth,  to  be  transported  hence. 
Whence  to  sharp  wars,  sweet  Honour  did  thee  call. 
Thy  country's  love,  religion,  and  thy  friends  : 
Of  worthy  men,  the  marks,  the  lives  and  ends  ; 
And  her  defence,  for  whom  we  labour  all. 

These  didst  thou  vanquish  shame  and  tedious  age, 
Grief,  sorrow,  sickness,  and  base  fortune's  might. 
Thy  rising  day  saw  never  woeful  night, 
But  passed  with  praise  from  off  this  worldly  stage. 

Back  to  the  camp,  by  thee  that  day  was  brought 
First,  thine  own  death  ;  and  after,  thy  long  fame  ; 
Tears  to  the  soldiers ;  the  proud  CastiUans'  shame  ; 
Virtue  expressed  ;  and  honour  truly  taught. 

What  hath  he  lost  that  such  great  grace  hath  won  ? 
Young  years,  for  endless  years ;  and  hope  unsure 
Of  fortune's  gifts,  for  wealth  that  still  shall  'dure. 
O  happy  race !   with  so  great  praises  run. 

England  doth  hold  thy  limbs,  that  bred  the  same ; 
Flanders,  thy  valour,  where  it  last  was  tried. 
The  camp,  thy  sorrow,  where  thy  body  died. 
Thy  friends,  thy  want;  the  world,  thy  virtues  fame. 

Nations,  thy  wit ;  our  minds  lay  up  thy  love, 
Letters,  thy  learning  ;  thy  loss,  years  long  to  come. 
In  worthy  hearts,  sorrow  hath  made  thy  tomb ; 
Thy  soul  and  sprite  enrich  the  heavens  above. 

Thy  liberal  heart  embalmed  in  grateful  tears, 
Young  sighs,  sweet  sighs,  sage  sighs  bewail  thy  fall. 
Envy,  her  sting,  and  Spite  hath  left  her  gall. 
Malice  herself,  a  mourning  garment  wears. 


MARVELL  91 

That  day  their  Hannibal  died,  our  Scipio  fell : 
Scipio,  Cicero,  and  Petrarch  of  our  time  : 
Whose  virtues,  wounded  by  my  worthless  rhyme, 
Let  angels  speak,  and  heaven  thy  praises  tell. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh, 
1552-1618, 


A  POEM 

Upon  the  Death  of  His  Late  Highness  the 
Lord  Protector 

[First  published  in    Captain    Thompson^ s  editioti   of  Marvell, 
3  vols.  /\to,  lTj6.      Cromwell  died  September  3,    1658.] 

That  Providence  which  had  so  long  the  care 
Of  Cromwell's  head,  and  numbered  every  hair, 
Now  in  itself  (the  glass  where  all  appears) 
Had  seen  the  period  of  his  golden  years, 
And  henceforth  only  did  attend  to  trace 
What  death  might  least  so  fair  a  life  deface. 

The  people,  which,  what  most  they  fear,  esteem, 
Death  when  more  horrid,  so  more  noble  deem, 
And  blame  the  last  act,  like  spectators  vain. 
Unless  the  Prince,  whom  they  applaud,  be  slain  ; 
Nor  fate  indeed  can  well  refuse  the  right 
To  those  that  lived  in  war,  to  die  in  fight. 

But  long  his  valour  none  had  left  that  could 
Endanger  him,  or  clemency  that  would  ; 
And  he  (whom  Nature  all  for  peace  had  made. 
But  angry  Heaven  unto  war  had  swayed. 
And  so  less  useful  where  he  most  desired. 
For  what  he  least  affected  was  admired ;) 
Deserved  yet  an  end  whose  every  part 
Should  speak  the  wondrous  softness  of  his  heart. 
To  Love  and  Grief  the  fatal  writ  was  'signed, 
(Those  nobler  weaknesses  of  human  kind. 
From  which  those  Powers  that  issued  the  decree, 
Although  immortal,  found  they  were  not  free) 


92  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

That  they  to  whom  his  breast  still  open  lies 
In  gentle  passions,  should  his  death  disguise, 
And  leave  succeeding  ages  cause  to  mourn. 
As  long  as  Grief  shall  weep,  or  Love  shall  burn. 

Straight  does  a  slow  and  languishing  disease, 
Eliza,  Nature's  and  his  darling,  seize  ; 
Her,  when  an  infant,  taken  with  her  charms, 
He  oft  would  flourish  in  his  mighty  arms, 
And  lest  their  force  the  tender  burthen  wrong, 
Slacken  the  vigour  of  his  muscles  strong  ; 
Then  to  the  mother's  breast  her  softly  move. 
Which,  while  she  drained  of  milk,  she  filled  with  love. 
But  as  with  riper  years  her  virtue  grew. 
And  every  minute  adds  a  lustre  new  ; 
When  with  meridian  height  her  beauty  shined, 
And  thorough  that  sparkled  her  fairer  mind ; 
When  she  with  smiles  serene,  in  words  discreet. 
His  hidden  soul  at  every  turn  could  meet ; 
Then  might  you  have  daily  his  affection  spied. 
Doubling  that  knot  which  destiny  had  tied, 
While  they  by  sense,  not  knowing,  comprehend 
How  on  each  other  both  their  fates  depend. 
With  her  each  day  the  pleasing  hours  he  shares, 
And  at  her  aspect  calms  his  growing  cares ; 
Or  with  a  grandsire's  joy  her  children  sees. 
Hanging  about  her  neck,  or  at  his  knees  : 
Hold  fast,  dear  infants,  hold  them  both,  or  none  ; 
This  will  not  stay,  when  once  the  other  's  gone. 
A  silent  fire  now  wastes  those  limbs  of  wax. 
And  him  within  his  tortured  image  racks. 
So  the  flower,  withering,  which  the  garden  crowned. 
The  sad  root  pines  in  secret  under  ground. 
Each  groan  he  doubled,  and  each  sigh  she  sighed, 
Repeated  over  to  the  restless  night ; 
No  trembling  string,  composed  to  numbers  new, 
Answers  the  touch  in  notes  more  sad,  more  true. 
She,  lest  he  grieve,  hides  what  she  can,  her  pains ; 
And  he,  to  lessen  hers,  his  sorrow  feigns ; 


MARVELL  93 

Yet  both  perceived,  yet  both  concealed  their  skills, 
And  so,  diminishing,  increased  their  ills, 
That  whether  by  each  other's  grief  they  fell, 
Or  on  their  own  redoubled,  none  can  tell. 

And  now  Eliza's  purple  locks  were  shorn, 
Where  she  so  long  her  father's  fate  had  worn  ; 
And  frequent  lightning,  to  her  soul  that  flies. 
Divides  the  air  and  opens  all  the  skies. 
And  now  his  Ufe,  suspended  by  her  breath. 
Ran  out  impetuously  to  hastening  Death. 
Like  polished  mirrors,  so  his  steely  breast 
Had  every  figure  of  her  woes  expressed, 
And  with  the  damp  of  her  last  gasps  obscured, 
Had  drawn  such  stains  as  were  not  to  be  cured. 
Fate  could  not  either  reach  with  single  stroke, 
But,  the  dear  image  fled,  the  mirror  broke. 
Who  now  shall  tell  us  more  of  mournful  swans. 
Of  halycons  kind,  or  bleeding  pelicans  ? 
No  downy  breast  did  e'er  so  gently  beat, 
Or  fan  with  airy  plumes  so  soft  an  heat ; 
For  he  no  duty  by  his  height  excused, 
Nor,  though  a  prince,  to  be  a  man  refused  ; 
But  rather  than  in  his  Eliza's  pain, 
Not  love,  not  grieve,  would  neither  live  nor  reign ; 
And  in  himself  so  oft  immortal  tried, 
Yet  in  compassion  of  another  died. 

So  have  I  seen  a  vine,  whose  lasting  age, 
Of  many  a  winter  hath  survived  the  rage, 
Under  whose  shady  tent  men  every  year 
At  its  rich  blood's  expense,  their  sorrows  cheer ; 
If  some  dear  branch  where  it  extends  its  life 
Chance  to  be  pruned  by  an  untimely  knife, 
The  parent  tree  unto  the  grief  succeeds, 
And  through  the  wound  its  vital  humour  bleeds; 
Trickling  in  watery  drops,  whose  flowing  shape 
Weeps  that  it  falls  ere  fixed  into  a  grape ; 
So  the  dry  stock,  no  more  that  spreading  vine. 
Frustrates  the  autumn,  and  the  hopes  of  wine. 


94  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

A  secret  cause  does  sure  those  signs  ordain, 
Foreboding  princes'  falls,  and  seldom  vain : 
Whether  some  kinder  powers,  that  wish  us  well, 
What  they  above  cannot  prevent,  foretell ; 
Or  the  great  world  do  by  consent  presage, 
As  hollow  seas  with  future  tempests  rage  ; 
Or  rather  Heaven,  which  us  so  long  foresees 
Their  funerals  celebrates,  while  it  decrees. 
But  never  yet  was  any  human  fate 
By  Nature  solemnised  with  so  much  state  : 
He,  unconcerned,  the  dreadful  passage  crossed. 
But  oh  I  what  pangs  that  death  did  Nature  cost ! 

First  the  great  thunder  was  shot  off,  and  sent 
The  signal  from  the  starry  battlement : 
The  winds  receive  it,  and  its  force  outdo, 
As  practising  how  they  could  thunder  too  ; 
Out  of  the  binder's  hand  the  sheaves  they  tore. 
And  thrashed  the  harvest  in  the  airy  floor ; 
Or  of  huge  trees,  whose  growth  with  his  did  rise, 
The  deep  foundations  opened  to  the  skies  ; 
Then  heavy  showers  the  winged  tempests  lead, 
And  pour  the  deluge  o'er  the  chaos'  head. 
The  race  of  warlike  horses  at  his  tomb 
Offer  themselves  in  many  a  hecatomb  ; 
With  pensive  head  towards  the  ground  they  fall, 
And  helpless  languish  at  the  tainted  stall. 
Numbers  of  men  decrease  with  pains  unknown, 
And  hasten  (not  to  see  his  death)  their  own. 
Such  tortures  all  the  elements  unfixed. 
Troubled  to  part  where  so  exactly  mixed ; 
And  as  through  air  his  wasting  spirits  flowed, 
The  world  with  throes  laboured  beneath  their  load. 

Nature,  it  seemed,  with  him  would  nature  vie, 
He  with  Eliza,  it  with  him,  would  die. 

He  without  noise  still  travelled  to  his  end. 
As  silent  suns  to  meet  the  night  descend ; 
The  stars  that  for  him  fought  had  only  power 
Left  to  determine  now  his  fatal  hour, 


MARVELL  95 

Which,  since  they  might  not  hinder,  yet  they  cast 

To  choose  it  worthy  of  his  glories  past. 

No  part  of  time  but  bare  his  mark  away 

Of  honour, — all  the  year  was  Cromwell's  day ; 

But  this,  of  all  the  most  auspicious  found. 

Twice  had  in  open  field  him  victor  crowned  ; 

When  up  the  armed  mountains  of  Dunbar 

He  marched,  and  through  deep  Severn,  ending  war : 

What  day  should  him  eternise,  but  the  same 

That  had  before  immortalised  his  name? 

That  so  whoe'er  would  at  his  death  have  joyed, 

In  their  own  griefs  might  find  themselves  employed  ; 

But  those  that  sadly  his  departure  grieved. 

Yet  joyed,  remembering  what  he  once  achieved  ; 

And  the  last  minute  his  victorious  ghost 

Gave  chase  to  Ligny  on  the  Belgic  coast : 

Here  ended  all  his  mortal  toils ;  he  laid 

And  slept  in  peace  under  the  laurel  shade. 

O  Cromwell !    Heaven's  favourite,  to  none 
Have  such  high  honours  from  above  been  shown. 
For  whom  the  elements  we  mourners  see. 
And   Heaven  itself  would  the  great  herald  be ; 
Which  with  more  care  set  forth  his  obsequies 
Than  those  of  Moses,  hid  from  human  eyes ; 
As  jealous  only  here,  lest  all  be  less 
Than  we  could  to  his  memory  express. 

Then  let  us  too  our  course  of  mourning  keep ; 
Where  Heaven  leads,  'tis  piety  to  weep. 
Stand  back,  ye  seas,  and  shrunk  beneath  the  veil 
Of  your  abyss,  with  covered  head  bewail 
Your  monarch  :  we  demand  not  your  supplies 
To  compass-in  our  isle, — our  tears  suffice, 
Since  him  away  the  dismal  tempest  rent. 
Who  once  more  joined  us  to  the  continent ; 
Who  planted  England  on  the  Flanderic  shore. 
And  stretched  our  frontier  to  the  Indian  ore ; 
Whose  greater  truths  obscure  the  fables  old. 
Whether  of  British  saints  or  worthies  told. 


96  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

And  in  a  valour  lessening  Arthur's  deeds, 
For  holiness  the  Confessor  exceeds. 

He  first  put  arras  into  Religion's  hand, 
And  timorous  conscience  unto  courage  manned ; 
The  soldier  taught  that  inward  mail  to  wear, 
And  fearing  God,  how  they  should  nothing  fear  ; 
Those  strokes,  he  said,  will  pierce  through  all  below. 
Where  those  that  strike  from  Heaven  fetch  their  blow. 
Astonished  armies  did  their  flight  prepare. 
And  cities  strong  were  stormed  by  his  prayer ; 
Of  that  for  ever  Preston's  field  shall  tell 
The  story,  and  impregnable  Clonmel, 
And  where  the  sandy  mountain  Fenwick  scaled, 
The  sea  between,  yet  hence  his  prayer  prevailed. 
What  man  was  ever  so  in  Heaven  obeyed 
Since  the  commanded  sun  o'er  Gibeon  stayed  ? 
In  all  his  wars  needs  must  he  triumph,  when 
He  conquered  God,  still  ere  he  fought  with  men  : 
Hence,  though  in  battle  none  so  brave  or  fierce, 
Yet  him  the  adverse  steel  could  never  pierce  ; 
Pity  it  seemed  to  hurt  him  more,  that  felt 
Each  wound  himself  which  he  to  others  dealt, 
Danger  itself  refusing  to  offend 
So  loose  an  enemy,  so  fast  a  friend. 
Friendship,  that  sacred  virtue,  long  does  claim 
The  first  foundation  of  his  house  and  name : 
But  within  one  its  narrow  limits  fall, 
His  tenderness  extendeth  unto  all. 
And  that  deep  soul  through  every  channel  flows. 
Where  kindly  Nature  loves  itself  to  lose. 
More  strong  affections  never  reason  served, 
Yet  still  affected  most  what  best  deserved. 
If  he  Eliza  loved  to  that  degree, 
(Though  who  more  worthy  to  be  loved  than  she  ?) 
If  so  indulgent  to  his  own,  how  dear 
To  him  the  children  of  the  Highest  were ! 
For  her  he  once  did  Nature's  tribute  pay  ; 
For  these  his  life  adventured  every  day ; 


MARVELL  97 

And  'twould  be  found,  could  we  his  thoughts  have  cast, 

Their  griefs  struck  deepest,  if  Eliza's  last. 

What  prudence  more  than  human  did  he  need. 

To  keep  so  dear,  so  differing  minds  agreed  ? 

The  worser  sort,  so  conscious  of  their  ill, 

Lie  weak  and  easy  to  the  ruler's  will ; 

But  to  the  good  (too  many  or  too  few) 

All  law  is  useless,  all  reward  is  due. 

Oh !  ill-advised,  if  not  for  love,  for  shame, 

Spare  yet  your  own,  if  you  neglect  his  fame  ; 

Lest  others  dare  to  think  your  zeal  a  mask, 

And  you  to  govern  only  Heaven's  task. 

Valour,  Religion,  Friendship,  Prudence  died 

At  once  with  him,  and  all  that 's  good  beside ; 

And  we,  Death's  refuge.  Nature's  dregs,  confined 

To  loathsome  life,  alas  I  are  left  behind. 

Where  we  (so  once  we  used)  shall  now  no  more 

To  fetch  day,  press  about  his  chamber-door. 

From  which  he  issued  with  that  awful  state, 

It  seemed  Mars  broke  through  Janus'  double  gate ; 

Yet  always  tempered  with  an  air  so  mild. 

No  April  suns  that  ere  so  gentle  smiled ; 

No  more  shall  hear  that  powerful  language  charm, 

Whose  force  oft  spared  the  labour  of  his  arm  ; 

No  more  shall  follow  where  he  spent  the  days 

In  war,  in  counsel,  or  in  prayer  and  praise. 

Whose  meanest  acts  he  would  himself  advance. 

As  ungirt  David  to  the  ark  did  dance. 

All,  all  is  gone  of  ours  or  his  delight 

In  horses  fierce,  wild  deer,  or  armour  bright ; 

Francisca  fair  can  nothing  now  but  weep, 

Nor  with  soft  notes  shall  sing  his  cares  asleep. 

I  saw  him  dead  :  a  leaden  slumber  lies. 
And  mortal  sleep  over  those  wakeful  eyes ; 
Those  gentle  rays  under  the  lids  were  fled, 
Which  through  his  looks  that  piercing  sweetness  shed ; 
That  port  which  so  majestic  was  and  strong, 
Loose  and  deprived  of  vigour,  stretched  along ; 


98  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

All  withered,  all  discoloured,  pale  and  wan, 

How  much  another  thing,  no  more  that  man ! 

O,  human  glory  vain  !   O,  Death  !   O,  wings  1 

O,  worthless  world  !    O,  transitory  things ! 

Yet  dwelt  that  greatness  in  his  shape  decayed, 

That  still  though  dead,  greater  than  Death  he  laid, 

And  in  his  altered  face  you  something  feign 

That  threatens  Death,  he  yet  will  live  again. 

Not  much  unlike  the  sacred  oak,  which  shoots 

To  Heaven  its  branches,  and  through  earth  its  roots ; 

Whose  spacious  boughs  are  hung  with  trophies  round. 

And  honoured  wreaths  have  oft  the  victor  crowned ; 

When  angry  Jove  darts  lightning  through  the  air 

At  mortal  sins,  nor  his  own  plant  will  spare, 

It  groans  and  bruises  all  below,  that  stood 

So  many  years  the  shelter  of  the  wood ; 

The  tree,  erewhile  foreshortened  to  our  view, 

When  fallen  shows  taller  yet  than  as  it  grew; 

So  shall  his  praise  to  after  times  increase. 

When  truth  shall  be  allowed,  and  faction  cease ; 

And  his  own  shadows  with  him  fall ;  the  eye 

Detracts  from  objects  than  itself  more  high ; 

But  when  Death  takes  them  from  that  envied  state, 

Seeing  how  little,  we  confess  how  great. 

Thee,  many  ages  hence,  in  martial  verse 
Shall  the  English  soldier,  ere  he  charge,  rehearse ; 
Singing  of  thee,  inflame  himself  to  fight, 
And,  with  the  name  of  Cromwell,  armies  fright. 
As  long  as  rivers  to  the  seas  shall  run. 
As  long  as  Cynthia  shall  relieve  the  sun. 
While  stags  shall  fly  unto  the  forests  thick, 
While  sheep  delight  the  grassy  downs  to  pick, 
As  long  as  future  time  succeeds  the  past. 
Always  thy  honour,  praise  and  name,  shall  last ! 

Thou  in  a  pitch  how  far  beyond  the  sphere 
Of  human  glory  tower'st,  and  reigning  there, 
Despoiled  of  mortal  robes,  in  seas  of  bliss, 
Plunging,  dost  bathe,  and  tread  the  bright  abyss  1 


MARVELL  99 

There  thy  great  soul  yet  once  a  world  doth  see, 
Spacious  enough  and  pure  enough  for  thee. 
How  soon  thou  Moses  hast,  and  Joshua  found. 
And  David,  for  the  sword  and  harp  renowned  ; 
How  straight  canst  to  each  happy  mansion  go, 
(Far  better  known  above  than  here  below). 
And  in  those  joys  dost  spend  the  endless  day. 
Which  in  expressing,  we  ourselves  betray ! 

For  we,  since  thou  art  gone,  with  heavy  doom. 
Wander  like  ghosts  about  thy  loved  tomb. 
And  lost  in  tears,  have  neither  sight  nor  mind 
To  guide  us  upward  through  this  region  blind ; 
Since  thou  art  gone,  who  best  that  way  could  teach, 
Only  our  sighs,  perhaps,  may  thither  reach. 

And  Richard  yet,  where  his  great  parent  led. 
Beats  on  the  rugged  track  :  he  virtue  dead 
Revives,  and  by  his  milder  beams  assures ; 
And  yet  how  much  of  them  his  grief  obscures  ! 
He,  as  his  father,  long  was  kept  from  sight 
In  private,  to  be  viewed  by  better  light ; 
But  opened  once,  what  splendour  does  he  throw ! 
A  Cromwell  in  an  hour  a  prince  will  grow. 
How  he  becomes  that  seat,  how  strongly  strains, 
How  gently  winds  at  once  the  ruling  reins ! 
Heaven  to  this  choice  prepared  a  diadem. 
Richer  than  any  Eastern  silk,  or  gem, 
A  pearly  rainbow,  where  the  sun  inchased, 
His  brows,  like  an  imperial  jewel  graced. 

We  find  already  what  those  omens  mean. 
Earth  ne'er  more  glad,  nor  Heaven  more  serene. 
Cease  now  our  griefs,  calm  peace  succeeds  a  war. 
Rainbows  to  storms,  Richard  to  Oliver. 
Tempt  not  his  clemency  to  try  his  power. 
He  threats  no  deluge,  yet  foretells  a  shower. 

Andrew  Marvell, 
1621-1678, 


100  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

ASTROPHEL 

{Printed  with  "  Colin  Clouts  Come  Home  Again"  I59S-] 

A  Pastoral  Elegy 

Upon  the  Death  of  the  most  Noble  and  Valorous  Knight, 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 

Dedicated  to  the  most  Beautiful  and  Virtuous  Lady, 

The  Countess  of  Essex. 

Shepherds,  that  wont,  on  pipes  of  oaten  reed. 
Oft  times  to  plaine  your  loves  concealed  smart ; 
And  with  your  piteous  lays  have  learned  to  breed 
Compassion  in  a  country  lass's  heart. 
Hearken,  ye  gentle  shepherds,  to  my  song, 
And  place  my  doleful  plaint  your  plaints  among. 

To  you  alone  I  sing  this  mournful  verse, 
The  mournfulst  verse  that  ever  man  heard  tell : 
To  you  whose  softened  hearts  it  may  empierce 
With  dolour's  dart  for  death  of  Astrophel. 
To  you  I  sing  and  to  none  other  wight, 
For  well  I  wot  my  rhymes  been  rudely  dight. 

Yet  as  they  been,  if  any  nicer  wit 

Shall  hap  to  hear,  or  covet  them  to  read  : 

Think  he,  that  such  are  for  such  ones  most  fit. 

Made  not  to  please  the  living  but  the  dead. 

And  if  in  him  found  pity  ever  place, 

Let  him  be  moved  to  pity  such  a  case. 

ASTROPHEL 

A  Gentle  Shepherd  born  in  Arcady, 

Of  gentlest  race  that  ever  shepherd  bore, 

About  the  grassy  banks  of  Haemony 

Did  keep  his  sheep,  his  little  stock  and  store  : 

Full  carefully  he  kept  them  day  and  night, 

In  fairest  fields  ;  and  Astrophel  he  hight. 


SPENSER  loi 

Young  Astrophel,  the  pride  of  shepherd's  praise, 
Young  Astrophel,  the  rustic  lasses'  love : 
Far  passing  all  the  pastors  of  his  days. 
In  all  that  seemly  shepherd  might  behove. 
In  one  thing  only  failing  of  the  best, 
That  he  was  not  so  happy  as  the  rest. 

For  from  the  time  that  first  the  Nymph  his  mother 
Him  forth  did  bring,  and  taught  her  lambs  to  feed  ; 
A  slender  swain,  excelling  far  each  other. 
In  comely  shape,  like  her  that  did  him  breed, 
He  grew  up  fast  in  goodness  and  in  grace. 
And  doubly  fair  wox  both  in  mind  and  face. 

Which  daily  more  and  more  he  did  augment. 
With  gentle  usage  and  demeanour  mild  : 
That  all  men's  hearts  with  secret  ravishment 
He  stole  away,  and  weetingly  beguiled. 
Ne  spite  itself,  that  all  good  things  doth  spill, 
Found  aught  in  him,  that  she  could  say  was  ill. 

His  sports  were  fair,  his  joyance  innocent, 
Sweet  without  sour,  and  honey  without  gall : 
And  he  himself  seemed  made  for  merriment. 
Merrily  masking  both  in  bower  and  hall. 
There  was  no  pleasure  nor  delightful  play. 
When  Astrophel  so  ever  was  away. 

For  he  could  pipe,  and  dance  and  carol  sweet, 
Amongst  the  shepherds  in  their  shearing  feast ; 
As  summer's  lark  that  with  her  song  doth  greet 
The  dawning  day  forth  coming  from  the  east. 
And  lays  of  love  he  also  could  compose : 
Thrice  happy  she,  whom  he  to  praise  did  choose. 

Full  many  maidens  often  did  him  woo. 

Them  to  vouchsafe  amongst  his  rhymes  to  name. 

Or  make  for  them  as  he  was  wont  to  do 

For  her  that  did  his  heart  with  love  inflame. 


102  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

For  which  they  promised  to  dight  for  him 
Gay  chapelets  of  flowers  and  gyrlonds  trim. 

And  many  a  Nymph  both  of  the  wood  and  brook, 

Soon  as  his  oaten  pipe  began  to  shrill, 

Both  crystal  wells  and  shady  groves  forsook, 

To  hear  the  charms  of  his  enchanting  skill ; 

And  brought  him  presents,  flowers  if  it  were  prime. 

Or  mellow  fruit  if  it  were  harvest  time. 

But  he  for  none  of  them  did  care  a  whit, 
Yet  woodgods  for  them  often  sighed  sore : 
Ne  for  their  gifts  unworthy  of  his  wit. 
Yet  not  unworthy  of  the  country's  store. 
For  one  alone  he  cared,  for  one  he  sigh't, 
His  life's  desire,  and  his  dear  love's  deUght. 

Stella  the  fair,  the  fairest  star  in  sky. 

As  fair  as  Venus  or  the  fairest  fair, 

(A  fairer  star  saw  never  living  eye) 

Shot  her  sharp  pointed  beams  through  purest  air. 

Her  he  did  love,  her  he  alone  did  honour. 

His  thoughts,  his  rhymes,  his  songs  were  all  upon  her. 

To  her  he  vowed  the  service  of  his  days. 
On  her  he  spent  the  riches  of  his  wit : 
For  her  he  made  hymns  of  immortal  praise. 
Of  only  her  he  sung,  he  thought,  he  writ. 
Her,  and  but  her,  of  love  he  worthy  deemed ; 
For  all  the  rest  but  little  he  esteemed. 

Ne  her  with  idle  words  alone  he  wowed,* 

And  verses  vain,  (yet  verses  are  not  vain,) 

But  with  brave  deeds  to  her  sole  service  vowed. 

And  bold  achievements  her  did  entertain. 

For  both  in  deeds  and  words  he  nurtured  was. 

Both  wise  and  hardy,  (too  hardy,  alas  !) 

*  wooed. 


SPENSER  103 

In  wrestling  nimble,  and  in  running  swift, 
In  shooting  steady,  and  in  swimming  strong : 
Well  made  to  strike,  to  throw,  to  leap,  to  lift, 
And  all  the  sports  that  shepherds  are  among. 
In  every  one  he  vanquished  every  one. 
He  vanquished  all,  and  vanquished  was  of  none. 

Besides,  in  hunting  such  felicity, 

Or  rather  infelicity,  he  found. 

That  every  field  and  forest  far  away 

He  sought,  where  savage  beasts  do  most  abound. 

No  beast  so  savage  but  he  could  it  kill  ; 

No  chase  so  hard,  but  he  therein  had  skill. 

Such  skill,  matched  with  such  courage  as  he  had, 
Did  prick  him  forth  with  proud  desire  of  praise 
To  seek  abroad,  of  danger  nought  ydrad,* 
His  mistress'  name,  and  his  own  fame  to  raise. 
What  needeth  peril  to  be  sought  abroad, 
Since  round  about  us  it  doth  make  aboad  !  t 

It  fortuned  as  he  that  perilous  game 

In  foreign  soil  pursued  far  away. 

Into  a  forest  wide  and  waste  he  came. 

Where  store  he  heard  to  be  of  savage  prey. 

So  wide  a  forest  and  so  waste  as  this. 

Nor  famous  Ardeyn,  nor  foul  Arlo,  is. 

There  his  well-woven  toils,  and  subtle  trains, 
He  laid  the  brutish  nation  to  enwrap  : 
So  well  he  wrought  with  practice  and  with  pains, 
That  he  of  them  great  troops  did  soon  entrap. 
Full  happy  man  (misweening  much)  was  he. 
So  rich  a  spoil  within  his  power  to  see. 

Eftsoones,  all  heedless  of  his  dearest  hale, 

Full  greedily  into  the  herd  he  thrust. 

To  slaughter  them,  and  work  their  final  bale, 

Lest  that  his  toil  should  of  their  troops  be  brustj 

*  afraid.  t  abode.  +  burst. 


104  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Wide  wounds  amongst  them  many  one  he  made, 
Now  with  his  sharp  boar-spear,  now  with  his  blade. 

His  care  was  all  how  he  them  all  might  kill. 

That  none  might  'scape,  (so  partial  unto  none :) 

111  mind  so  much  to  mind  another's  ill, 

As  to  become  unmindful  of  his  own. 

But  pardon  that  unto  the  cruel  skies, 

That  from  himself  to  them  withdrew  his  eyes. 

So  as  he  raged  amongst  that  beastly  rout, 

A  cruel  beast  of  most  accursed  brood 

Upon  him  turned,  (despair  makes  cowards  stout,) 

And,  with  fell  tooth  accustomed  to  blood. 

Launched  his  thigh  with  so  mischievous  might. 

That  it  both  bone  and  muscles  rived  quite. 

So  deadly  was  the  dint  and  deep  the  wound. 
And  so  huge  streams  of  blood  thereout  did  flow. 
That  he  endured  not  the  direful  stound. 
But  on  the  cold  dear  earth  himself  did  throw ; 
The  whiles  the  captive  herd  his  nets  did  rend. 
And,  having  none  to  let,  to  wood  did  wend. 

Ah !  where  were  ye  this  while,  his  shepherd  peers. 
To  whom  alive  was  nought  so  dear  as  he : 
And  ye  fair  maids,  the  matches  of  his  years, 
Which  in  his  grace  did  boast  you  most  to  be ! 
Ah !  where  were  ye,  when  he  of  you  had  need, 
To  stop  his  wound  that  wondrously  did  bleed  1 

Ah  1  wretched  boy,  the  shape  of  drearyhead. 
And  sad  ensample  of  man's  sudden  end  : 
Full  little  faileth  but  thou  shalt  be  dead, 
Unpitied,  unplained,  of  foe  or  friend  : 
Whilst  none  is  nigh,  thine  eyelids  up  to  close. 
And  kiss  thy  lips  like  faded  leaves  of  rose. 


SPENSER  105 

A  sort  of  shepherds,  sewing*  of  the  chase, 
As  they  the  forest  ranged  on  a  day. 
By  fate  or  fortune  came  unto  the  place, 
Where  as  the  luckless  boy  yet  bleeding  lay  ; 
Yet  bleeding  lay,  and  yet  would  still  have  bled, 
Had  not  good  hap  those  shepherds  thither  led. 

They  stopped  his  wound,  (too  late  to  stop  it  was !) 
And  in  their  arms  then  softly  did  him  rear  : 
Thot  (as  he  willed)  unto  his  loved  lass, 
His  dearest  love,  him  dolefully  did  bear. 
The  dolefulst  bear  J  that  ever  man  did  see. 
Was  Astrophel,  but  dearest  unto  me ! 

She,  when  she  saw  her  love  in  such  a  plight, 
With  curdled  blood  and  filthy  gore  deformed. 
That  wont  to  be  with  flowers  and  gyrlonds  dight, 
And  her  dear  favours  dearly  well  adorned  ; 
Her  face,  the  fairest  face  that  eye  might  see, 
She  likewise  did  deform,  like  him  to  be. 

Her  yellow  locks  that  shone  so  bright  and  long, 
As  sunny  beams  in  fairest  summer's  day, 
She  fiercely  tore,  and  with  outrageous  wrong 
From  her  red  cheeks  the  roses  rent  away  ; 
And  her  fair  breast,  the  treasury  of  joy. 
She  spoiled  thereof,  and  filled  with  annoy. 

His  pallid  face,  impictured  with  death. 

She  bathed  oft  with  tears,  and  dried  oft : 

And  with  sweet  kisses  sucked  the  wasting  breath 

Out  of  his  lips  like  lilies  pale  and  soft : 

And  oft  she  called  to  him,  who  answered  nought. 

But  only  by  his  looks  did  tell  his  thought. 

The  rest  of  her  impatient  regret. 
And  piteous  moan  the  which  she  for  him  made, 
No  tongue  can  tell,  nor  any  forth  can  set. 
But  he  whose  heart  like  sorrow  did  invade. 

*  following.  •      t  then."  t  burden. 


io6  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

At  last,  when  pain  his  vital  powers  had  spent, 
His  wasted  life  her  weary  lodge  forwent 

Which  when  she  saw,  she  stayed  not  a  whit. 
But  after  him  did  make  untimely  haste : 
Forth-with  her  ghost  out  of  her  corpse  did  flit. 
And  followed  her  make  *  like  turtle  chaste, 
To  prove  that  death  their  hearts  cannot  divide, 
Which  living  were  in  love  so  firmly  tied. 

The  gods,  which  all  things  see,  this  same  beheld. 
And,  pitying  this  pair  of  lovers  true. 
Transformed  them,  there  lying  on  the  field. 
Into  one  flower  that  is  both  red  and  blue ; 
It  first  grows  red,  and  then  to  blue  doth  fade. 
Like  Astrophel,  which  thereinto  was  made. 

And  in  the  midst  thereof  a  star  appears, 
As  fairly  formed  as  any  star  in  skies  ; 
Resembling  Stella  in  her  freshest  years. 
Forth  darting  beams  of  beauty  from  her  eyes : 
And  all  the  day  it  standeth  full  of  dew. 
Which  is  the  tears,  that  from  her  eyes  did  flow. 

That  herb  of  some  Starlight  is  called  by  name. 

Of  others  Penthia,  though  not  so  well : 

But  thou,  wherever  thou  dost  find  the  same. 

From  this  day  forth  do  call  it  Astrophel : 

And,  whensoever  thou  it  up  do  take. 

Do  pluck  it  softly  for  that  shepherd's  sake. 

Hereof  when  tidings  far  abroad  did  pass. 
The  shepherds  all  which  loved  him  full  dear, 
And  sure  full  dear  of  all  he  loved  was. 
Did  thither  flock  to  see  what  they  did  hear. 
And  when  that  piteous  spectacle  they  viewed. 
The  same  with  bitter  tears  they  all  bedewed. 

*  companion. 


SPENSER  107 

And  every  one  did  make  exceeding  moan, 
With  inward  anguish  and  great  grief  oppressed  : 
And  every  one  did  weep,  and  wail,  and  moan, 
And  means  devised  to  show  his  sorrow  best. 
That  from  that  hour,  since  first  on  grassy  green 
Shepherds  kept  sheep,  was  not  like  mourning  seen. 

But  first  his  sister  that  Clorinda  hight. 
The  gentlest  shepherdess  that  lives  this  day, 
And  most  resembling  both  in  shape  and  spright 
Her  brother  dear,  began  this  doleful  lay. 
Which,  lest  I  mar  the  sweetness  of  the  verse, 
In  sort  as  she  it  sung  I  will  rehearse. 


THE  DOLEFUL  LAY  OF  CLORINDA 

[These  verses  are  supposed  to  have  been  written  by  Mary, 
Countess  of  Pembroke,  Sir  Philip  Sidney'' s  sister;  but  I  have 
been  unable  to  resist  a  suspicion  {entertained,  I  have  since 
seen,  also  by  Mr  F.  T.  Palgrave  ;  see  Grosarfs  "  Spenser," 
vol.  iv.  ciii. )  that  it  was  freely  revised,  or  even  written  by 
Spenser.  Certainly  the  resemblance  to  his  style  is  ve7y 
striking  in  places.  Mr  Palgrave  7-emarks  that  "the 
mystification  would  be  quite  in  accordance  with  the  fnystical 
character  of  the  Introduction.^''\ 

"  Aye  me!  to  whom  shall  I  my  case  complain. 
That  may  compassion  my  impatient  grief? 
Or  where  shall  I  unfold  my  inward  pain 
That  my  enriven  heart  may  find  relief? 
Shall  I  unto  the  heavenly  powers  it  show. 
Or  unto  earthly  men  that  dwell  below? 

"  To  heavens !    Ah,  they,  alas,  the  authors  were 
And  workers  of  my  unremedied  woe ; 
For  they  foresee  what  to  us  happens  here. 
And  they  foresaw,  yet  suffered  this  be  so. 

From  them  comes  good,  from  them  comes  also  ill ; 

That  which  they  made,  who  can  them  warn  to  spill  ? 


io8  ENGLISH    ELEGIES 

"  To  men !    Ah,  they,  alas,  like  wretched  be 
And  subject  to  the  heavens'  ordinance  ; 
Bound  to  abide  whatever  they  decree, 
Their  best  redress  is  their  best  sufferance. 

How  then  can  they,  like  wretched,  comfort  me? 

The  which  no  less  need  comforted  to  be. 

"  Then  to  myself  will  I  my  sorrow  mourn, 
Sith  none  alive  like  sorrowful  remains  : 
And  to  myself  my  plaints  shall  back  return, 
To  pay  their  usury  with  doubled  pains. 
The  woods,  the  hills,  the  rivers  shall  resound 
The  mournful  accent  of  my  sorrow's  ground. 

**  Woods,  hills,  and  rivers  now  are  desolate ; 
Sith  he  is  gone  the  which  them  all  did  grace  : 
And  all  the  fields  do  wail  their  widow-state  ; 
Sith  death  their  fairest  flower  did  late  deface. 
The  fairest  flower  in  field  that  ever  grew. 
Was  Astrophel :  that  'was,'  we  all  may  rue. 

"  What  cruel  hand  of  cursed  foe  unknown. 
Hath  cropped  the  stalk  which  bore  so  fair  a  flower  ? 
Untimely  cropped  before  it  well  were  grown. 
And  clean  defaced  in  untimely  hour. 
Great  loss  to  all  that  ever  him  did  see. 
Great  loss  to  all,  but  greatest  loss  to  me ! 

"  Break  now  your  gyrlonds,  O  ye  shepherds'  lasses! 
Sith  the  fair  flower,  which  them  adorned,  is  gone  : 
The  flower  which  them  adorned,  is  gone  to  ashes, 
Never  again  let  lass  put  gyrlond  on. 

Instead  of  gyrlond,  wear  sad  cypress  now ; 
And  bitter  elder,  broken  from  the  bough. 

"  Ne  ever  sing  the  love-lays  which  he  made ; 
Who  ever  made  such  lays  of  love  as  he  ? 
Ne  ever  read  the  riddles,  which  he  said 
Unto  yourselves,  to  make  you  merry  glee. 


SPENSER  109 

Your  merry  glee  is  now  laid  all  abed, 
Your  merry  maker  now,  alas  1  is  dead. 

"  Death !  the  devourer  of  all  world's  delight, 

Hath  robbed  you,  and  reft  from  me  my  joy  ; 

Both  you  and  me  and  all  the  world,  he  quite 

Hath  robbed  of  joyance ;  and  left  sad  annoy. 

Joy  of  the  world !  and  shepherds'  pride  was  he  : 

Shepherds,  hope  never  like  again  to  see. 

"  Oh,  Death  !  that  hast  us  of  such  riches  reft. 
Tell  us  at  least,  what  hast  thou  with  it  done? 
What  is  become  of  him,  whose  flower  here  left 
Is  but  the  shadow  of  his  likeness  gone. 
Scarce  like  the  shadow  of  that  which  he  was : 
Nought  like,  but  that  he  like  a  shade  did  pass. 

"  But  that  immortal  spirit,  which  was  deckt 

With  all  the  dowries  of  celestial  grace ; 

By  sovereign  choice  from  th'  heavenly  quires  select. 

And  lineally  derived  from  angels'  race  : 

O  what  is  now  of  it  become  aread.* 

Aye  me  I  can  so  divine  a  thing  be  dead  ? 

"  Ah  no!    It  is  not  dead,  ne  can  it  die; 
But  lives  for  aye  in  blissful  paradise : 
Where,  like  a  new-born  babe,  it  soft  doth  lie 
In  bed  of  lilies,  wrapped  in  tender  wise : 

And  compassed  all  about  with  roses  sweet, 

And  dainty  violets  from  head  to  feet. 

"  There  thousand  birds,  all  of  celestial  brood. 
To  him  do  sweetly  carol  day  and  night ; 
And  with  strange  notes,  of  him  well  understood, 
Lull  him  asleep  in  angelic  delight : 
Whilst  in  sweet  dream,  to  him  presented  be 
Immortal  beauties,  which  no  eye  may  see. 

*  declare. 


no  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

"  But  he  them  sees,  and  takes  exceeding  pleasure 
Of  their  divine  aspects,  appearing  plain ; 
And  kindling  love  in  him  above  all  measure, 
Sweet  love,  still  joyous,  never  feeling  pain ; 
For  what  so  goodly  form  he  there  doth  see, 
He  may  enjoy,  from  jealous  rancour  free. 

"  There  liveth  he  in  everlasting  bliss. 
Sweet  spirit  never  fearing  more  to  die : 
Ne  dreading  harm  from  any  foes  of  his, 
Ne  fearing  savage  beasts'  more  cruelty. 
Whilst  we  here,  wretches,  wail  his  private  lack  ; 
And  with  vain  vows  do  often  call  him  back. 

"  But  live  thou  there  btill  happy,  happy  spirit  I 
And  give  us  leave  thee  here  thus  to  lament : 
Not  thee,  that  dost  thy  heaven's  joy  inherit ; 
But  our  own  selves,  that  here  in  dole  are  drent. 
Thus  do  we  weep  and  wail,  and  wear  our  eyes, 
Mourning  in  others  our  own  miseries." 

Edmund  Spenser, 
1552-1599, 

THE   FOURTH    ECLOGUE   OF   THE 
SHEPHERD'S  PIPE 

["  The  Shephearifs  Pipe,  London,  1614."] 

The  Argument.— In  this  the  Author  bewails  the  death  of  one 
whom  he  shadoweth  under  the  name  of  Philarete,  com- 
pounded of  the  Greek  words,  4>CXos  and  ap£T^,  a  lover 
of  virtue,  a  name  well  befitting  him  to  whose  memory 
these  lines  are  consecrated,  being  sometime  his  truly  loved 
(and  now  as  much  lamented)  friend,  Mr  Thomas  Manwood, 
son  to  the  worthy  Sir  Peter  Manwood,  Knight. 

Under  an  aged  oak  was  WilHe  laid, 

Willie,  the  lad  who  whilom  made  the  rocks 

To  ring  with  joy,  whilst  on  his  pipe  he  played. 

And  from  their  masters  wooed  the  neighb'ring  flocks : 


BROWNE  III 

But  now  o'ercome  with  dolours  deep 
That  nigh  his  heart-strings  rent, 
Ne  cared  he  for  his  silly  sheep, 
Ne  cared  for  merriment. 
But  changed  his  wonted  walks 

For  uncouth  paths  unknown, 
Where  none  but  trees  might  hear  his  plaints, 
And  echo  rue  his  moan. 

Autumn  it  was  when  drooped  the  sweetest  flowers, 
And  rivers,  swollen  with  pride,  o'erlooked  the  banks  ; 
Poor  grew  the  day  of  summer's  golden  hours. 
And  void  of  sap  stood  Ida's  cedar-ranks. 

The  pleasant  meadows  sadly  lay 

In  chill  and  cooling  sweats 
By  rising  fountains,  or  as  they 

Feared  winter's  wasteful  threats. 
Against  the  broad-spread  oak. 
Each  wind  in  fury  bears ; 
Yet  fell  their  leaves  not  half  so  fast 
As  did  the  shepherd's  tears. 

As  was  his  seat,  so  was  his  gentle  heart. 
Meek  and  dejected,  but  his  thoughts  as  high 
As  those  aye-wandering  lights,  who  both  impart 
Their  beams  on  us,  and  heaven  still  beautify. 
Sad  was  his  look  (O,  heavy  fate ! 
That  swain  should  be  so  sad. 
Whose  merry  notes  the  forlorn  mate 
With  greatest  pleasure  clad,) 
Broke  was  his  tuneful  pipe 

That  charmed  the  crystal  floods. 
And  thus  his  grief  took  airy  wings. 
And  flew  about  the  woods. 

Day,  thou  art  too  officious  in  thy  place. 
And  night  too  sparing  of  a  wished  stay. 
Ye  wandering  lamps,  O  be  ye  fixed  a  space  I 
Some  other  hemisphere  grace  with  your  ray. 


112  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Great  Phoebus !  Daphne  is  not  here, 

Nor  Hyacinthus  fair ; 
Phoebe !  Endymion,  and  thy  dear 
Hath  long  since  cleft  the  air. 
But  ye  hath  surely  seen 

(Whom  we  in  sorrow  miss) 
A  swain  whom  Phoebe  thought  her  love, 
And  Titan  deemed  his. 

But  he  is  gone ;  then  inwards  turn  your  light, 
Behold  him  there  ;  here  never  shall  you  more ; 
O'erhang  this  sad  plain  with  eternal  night ; 
Or  change  the  gaudy  green  she  whilom  wore 
To  fenny  black !  Hyperion  great 

To  ashy  paleness  turn  her  1 
Green  well  befits  a  lover's  heat. 
But  black  beseems  a  mourner. 
Yet  neither  this  thou  canst, 

Nor  see  his  second  birth, 
His  brightness  blinds  thine  eye  more  now. 
Than  thine  did  his  on  earth. 

Let  not  a  shepherd  on  our  hapless  plains 
Tune  notes  of  glee,  as  used  were  of  yore ! 
For  Philarete  is  dead.     Let  mirthful  strains 
With  Philarete  cease  for  evermore ! 

And  if  a  fellow-swain  do  live 

A  niggard  of  his  tears. 
The  shepherdesses  all  will  give 
To  store  him  part  of  theirs. 
Or  I  would  lend  him  some. 

But  that  the  store  I  have 
Will  all  be  spent  before  I  pay 
The  debt  I  owe  his  grave. 

O  what  is  left  can  make  me  leave  to  moan, 
Or  what  remains  but  doth  increase  it  more  ? 
Look  on  his  sheep  :  alas !  their  master 's  gone. 
Look  on  the  place  where  we  two  heretofore 


BROWNE  113 

With  locked  arms  have  vowed  our  love, 

(Our  love  which  time  shall  see 
In  shepherds'  songs  for  ever  move, 
And  grace  their  harmony,) 
It  solitary  seems. 

Behold  our  flowery  beds  ; 
Their  beauties  fade,  and  violets 
For  sorrow  hang  their  heads. 

'Tis  not  a  cypress'  bough,  a  countenance  sad, 
A  mourning  garment,  wailing  elegy, 
A  standing  hearse  in  sable  vesture  clad, 
A  tomb  built  to  his  name's  eternity. 

Although  the  shepherds  all  should  strive 

By  yearly  obsequies. 
And  vow  to  keep  thy  fame  alive 
In  spite  of  destinies, 
That  can  suppress  my  grief: 

All  these  and  more  may  be, 
Yet  all  in  vain  to  recompense 
My  greatest  loss  of  thee. 

Cypress  may  fade,  the  countenance  be  changed, 
A  garment  rot,  an  elegy  forgotten, 
A  hearse  'mongst  irreligious  rites  be  ranged, 
A  tomb  plucked  down,  or  else  through  age  be  rotten : 
All  things  th'  unpartial  hand  of  Fate 

Can  raze  out  with  a  thought. 
These  have  a  several  fixed  date 
Which  ended,  turn  to  nought. 
Yet  shall  my  truest  cause 
Of  sorrow  firmly  stay. 
When  these  effects  the  wings  of  Time 
Shall  fan  and  sweep  away. 

Look  as  a  sweet  rose  fairly  budding  forth. 
Bewrays  her  beauties  to  the  enamoured  morn. 
Until  some  keen  blast  from  the  envious  North 
Kills  the  sweet  bud  that  was  but  newly  born  ; 

H 


114  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Or  else  her  rarest  smells  delighting 

Make  her  herself  betray, 
Some  white  and  curious  hand  inviting 
To  pluck  her  thence  away: 
So  stands  my  mournful  case, 

For  had  he  been  less  good. 
He  yet  (uncropped)  had  kept  the  stock 
Whereon  he  fairly  stood. 

Yet  though  so  long  he  lived  not  as  he  might, 
He  had  the  time  appointed  to  him  given. 
Who  liveth  but  the  space  of  one  poor  night. 
His  birth,  his  youth,  his  age  is  in  that  even. 
Who  ever  doth  the  period  see. 

Of  days  by  Heaven  forth  plotted. 
Dies  full  of  age,  as  well  as  he 
That  had  more  years  allotted. 
In  sad  tones  then  my  verse 

Shall  with  incessant  tears 
Bemoan  my  hapless  loss  of  him. 
And  not  his  want  of  years. 

In  deepest  passions  of  my  grief-swollen  breast 
(Sweet  soul  I)  this  only  comfort  seizeth  me, 
That  so  few  years  did  make  thee  so  much  blest, 
And  gave  such  wings  to  reach  eternity. 

Is  this  to  die  ?    No  :  as  a  ship. 
Well  built,  with  easy  wind, 
A  lazy  hulk  doth  far  outstrip, 
And  soonest  harbour  find  : 
So  Philarete  fled, 

Quick  was  his  passage  given, 
When  others  must  have  longer  time 
To  make  them  fit  for  heaven. 

Then  not  for  thee  these  briny  tears  are  spent, 

But,  as  the  nightingale  against  the  breer, 

'Tis  for  myself  I  moan,  and  do  lament 

Not  that  thou  left'st  the  world,  but  left'st  me  here 


BROWNE  115 

Here,  where  without  thee  all  delights 

Fail  of  their  pleasing  power, 
All  glorious  days  seem  ugly  nights ; 
Methinks  no  April  shower 
Embroider  should  the  earth, 

But  briny  tears  distil. 
Since  Flora's  beauties  shall  no  more 
Be  honoured  by  thy  quill. 

And  ye  his  sheep  (in  token  of  his  lack), 
Whilom  the  fairest  flock  on  all  the  plain, 
Yean  never  lamb,  but  be  it  clothed  in  black: 
Ye  shady  sycamores,  when  any  swain 

To  carve  his  name  upon  your  rind 

Doth  come,  where  his  doth  stand, 
Shed  drops,  if  he  be  so  unkind 
To  raze  it  with  his  hand. 
And  thou,  my  loved  Muse, 

No  more  shouldst  numbers  move, 
But  that  his  name  should  ever  live. 
And  after  death  my  love. 

This  said,  he  sighed,  and  with  o'erdrowned  eyes 
Gazed  at  the  heavens  for  what  he  missed  on  earth. 
Then  from  the  ground  full  sadly  'gan  arise 
As  far  from  future  hope  as  present  mirth  ; 
Unto  his  cote  with  heavy  pace 

As  ever  sorrow  trod 
He  went  with  mind  no  more  to  trace 
Where  mirthful  swains  abode ; 
And  as  he  spent  the  day. 

The  night  he  passed  alone. 
Was  never  shepherd  loved  more  dear, 
Nor  made  a  truer  moan. 

William  Browne, 
1591-1643  ? 


ii6  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

LYCIDAS 

["  Obsequies  to  the  memorie  of  Mr.  Edward  King, 
Anno  Dom.  1638."] 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels !  and  once  more, 
Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never  sere, 
I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crude, 
And  with  forced  fingers  rude 
Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year. 
Bitter  constraint,  and  sad  occasion  dear. 
Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due ; 
For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime. 
Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer  : 
Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas?     He  knew 
Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 
He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind. 
Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Begin  then.  Sisters,  of  the  sacred  well. 
That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth  spring ; 
Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the  string. 
Hence  with  denial  vain,  and  coy  excuse. 
So  may  some  gentle  Muse 
With  lucky  words  favour  my  destined  urn, 
And  as  he  passes  turn. 
And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud  ! 

For  we  were  nursed  upon  the  self-same  hill. 
Fed  the  same  flock  by  fountain,  shade,  and  rill 
Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appeared 
Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  Morn, 
We  drove  afield,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  grey-fly  winds  her  sultry  horn, 
Battening  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of  night. 
Oft  till  the  star  that  rose  at  evening  bright 
Toward  heaven's  descent  had  sloped  his  westering  wheel. 
Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute ; 
Tempered  to  the  oaten  flute. 
Rough  Satyrs  danced,  and  Fauns  with  cloven  heel 


MILTON  117 

From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent  long, 
And  old  Damoetas  loved  to  hear  our  song. 

But  oh !  the  heavy  change  now  thou  art  gone, 
Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  return ! 
Thee,  Shepherd,  thee  the  woods  and  desert  caves 
With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine  o'ergrown, 
And  all  their  echoes,  mourn. 
The  willows,  and  the  hazel  copses  green, 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen. 
Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays. 
As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose. 
Or  taint-worm  to  the  weanling  herds  that  graze. 
Or  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay  wardrobe  wear, 
When  first  the  white-thorn  blows ; 
Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherd's  ear. 

Where  were  ye.  Nymphs,  when  the  remorseless  deep 
Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas  ? 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep 
Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids,  lie. 
Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high. 
Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream. 
Ay  me!  I  fondly  dream 

"  Had  ye  been  there,"  ...  for  what  could  that  have  done  ? 
What  could  the  Muse  herself  that  Orpheus  bore. 
The  Muse  herself  for  her  enchanting  son, 
Whom  universal  nature  did  lament, 
When,  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous  roar. 
His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 
Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian  shore  ? 

Alas  1  what  boots  it  with  incessant  care 
To  tend  the  homely  slighted  shepherd's  trade. 
And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse? 
Were  it  not  better  done  as  others  use. 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade. 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neaera's  hair? 
Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise 
(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind) 
To  scorn  delights,  and  live  laborious  days; 


ii8  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 
Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorred  shears, 
And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.     "  But  not  the  praise," 
Phoebus  replied,  and  touched  my  trembling  ears ; 
"Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil. 
Nor  in  the  glistering  foil 

Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumour  lies, 
But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes. 
And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove ; 
As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed. 
Of  so  much  fame  in  heaven  expect  thy  meed." 

O  fountain  Arethuse,  and  thou  honoured  flood, 
Smooth-sliding  Mincius,  crowned  vyith  vocal  reeds, 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood. 
But  now  my  oat  proceeds. 
And  listens  to  the  Herald  of  the  Sea 
That  came  in  Neptune's  plea. 
He  asked  the  waves,  and  asked  the  felon  winds. 
What  hard  mishap  hath  doomed  this  gentle  swain? 
And  questioned  every  gust  of  rugged  wings, 
That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  promontory. 
They  knew  not  of  his  story ; 
And  sage  Hippotades  their  answer  brings. 
That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon  strayed  ; 
The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 
Sleek  Panope  with  all  her  sisters  played. 
It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark. 
Built  in  the  echpse,  and  rigged  with  curses  dark, 
That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 

Next  Camus,  reverend  sire,  went  footing  slow, 
His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge. 
Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the  edge 
Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscribed  with  woe. 
"Ah!  who  hath  reft,"  quoth  he,    "my  dearest  pledge?" 
Last  came,  and  last  did  go. 
The  Pilot  of  the  Galilean  Lake ; 
Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain 


MILTON  119 

(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain). 

He  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern  bespake  :— 

"  How  well  could  I  have  spared  for  thee,  young  swain, 

Enow  of  such  as,  for  their  bellies'  sake 

Creep  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold  ! 

Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make. 

Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearer's  feast. 

And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest. 

Blind  mouths !  that  scarce  themselves  know  how  to  hold 

A  sheep-hook,  or  have  learned  aught  else  the  least 

That  to  the  faithful  herdsman's  art  belongs  1 

What  recks  it  then  ?  What  need  they  ?  They  are  sped ; 

And  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 

Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched  straw ; 

The  hungry  sheep  look  up  and  are  not  fed. 

But  swollen  with  wind,  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw, 

Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread  : 

Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw 

Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said. 

But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door 

Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no  more." 

Return,  Alpheus  ;  the  dread  voice  is  past. 
That  shrunk  thy  streams ;  return,  Sicilian  muse, 
And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  bells  and  fiov/erets  of  a  thousand  hues. 
Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use 
Of  shades,  and  wanton  winds,  and  gushing  brooks. 
On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart  star  sparely  looks. 
Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enamelled  eyes. 
That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honeyed  showers, 
And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers. 
Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken  dies, 
The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine. 
The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  freaked  with  jet. 
The  glowing  violet. 

The  musk-rose,  and  the  well-attired  woodbine. 
With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive  head, 
And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears : 


120  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Bid  amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed, 

And  daffodillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears, 

To  strew  the  laureate  hearse  where  Lycid  lies. 

For  so,  to  interpose  a  little  ease, 

Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise. 

Ah  me !  whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sounding  seas 

Wash  far  away,  where'er  thy  bones  are  hurled  ; 

Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides, 

Where  thou,  perhaps,  under  the  whelming  tide, 

Visit'st  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world ; 

Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  vows  denied, 

Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old. 

Where  the  great  Vision  of  the  guarded  mount 

Looks  towards  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold  ; 

Look  homeward,  Angel,  now,  and  melt  with  ruth : 

And,  O  ye  dolphins,  waft  the  hapless  youth. 

Weep  no  more,  woeful  shepherds,  weep  no  more. 
For  Lycidas,  your  sorrow,  is  not  dead. 
Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watery  floor. 
So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean  bed. 
And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head. 
And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new-spangled  ore 
Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky : 
So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high, 
Through  the  dear  might  of  Him  that  walked  the  waves. 
Where,  other  groves  and  other  streams  along. 
With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves. 
And  hears  the  unexpressive  nuptial  song. 
In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love. 
There  entertain  him  all  the  Saints  above. 
In  solemn  troops  and  sweet  societies. 
That  sing,  and  singing  in  their  glory  move. 
And  wipe  the  tears  for  ever  from  his  eyes. 
Now,  Lycidas,  the  shepherds  weep  no  more  ; 
Henceforth  thou  art  the  Genius  of  the  shore. 
In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shalt  be  good 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood. 

Thus  sang  the  uncouth  swain  to  the  oaks  and  rills, 


SURREY  121 

While  the  still  morn  went  out  with  sandals  grey ; 
He  touched  the  tender  stops  of  various  quills, 
With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric  lay ; 
And  now  the  sun  had  stretched  out  all  the  hills, 
And  now  was  dropped  into  the  western  bay ; 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitched  his  mantle  blue: 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new. 

John  Milton, 
1608-1674. 

PRISONED  IN  WINDSOR 

He  recounteth  his  pleasure  there  passed. 

[Songes  and  Sonettes  written  by  the  ryght  honorable  Lorde  Henry 
Howard,  late  Earle  of  Stirrey,  and  other.  Apud  Richardum 
Tottel,  1557.] 

So  cruel  prison  how  could  betide,  alas, 

As  proud  Windsor  ?  where  I,  in  lust  and  joy. 

With  a  King's  son,  my  childish  years  did  pass, 

In  greater  feast  than  Priam's  sons  of  Troy. 

Where  each  sweet  place  returns  a  taste  full  sour. 

The  large  green  courts,  where  we  were  wont  to  hove,* 

With  eyes  cast  up  into  the  Maiden's  tower. 

And  easy  sighs,  such  as  folk  draw  in  love. 

The  stately  seats,  the  ladies  bright  of  hue. 

The  dances  short,  long  tales  of  great  delight ; 

With  words  and  looks  that  tigers  could  but  rue ; 

Where  each  of  us  did  plead  the  other's  right. 

The  palrae-play,t  where,  despoiled  for  the  game. 

With  dazed  eyes,  oft  we  by  gleams  of  love 

Have  missed  the  ball,  and  got  sight  of  our  dame, 

To  bait  her  eyes,  which  kept  the  leads  above. 

The  gravelled  ground,  with  sleeves  tied  on  the  helm. 

On  foaming  horse,  with  swords  and  friendly  hearts ; 

With  chere,  as  though  one  should  another  whelm. 

Where  we  have  fought,  and  chased  oft  with  darts. 

*  hover.  t  tennis. 


122  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

With  silver  drops  the  mead  yet  spread  for  ruth, 
In  active  games  of  nimbleness  and  strength, 
Where  we  did  strain,  trained  with  swarms  of  youth, 
Our  tender  limbs,  that  yet  shot  up  in  length. 
The  secret  groves,  which  oft  we  made  resound 
Of  pleasant  plaint,  and  of  our  ladies'  praise ; 
Recording  oft  what  grace  each  one  had  found, 
What  hope  of  speed,  what  dread  of  long  delays. 
The  wild  forest,  the  clothed  holts  with  green : 
With  reins  availed,  and  swift-y-breathed  horse, 
With  cry  of  hounds,  and  merry  blasts  between. 
Where  we  did  chase  the  fearful  hart  of  force. 
The  wide  vales  eke,  that  harboured  us  each  night. 
Wherewith,  alas  1  reviveth  in  my  breast 
The  sweet  accord :  such  sleeps  us  yet  deUght ; 
The  pleasant  dreams,  the  quiet  bed  of  rest ; 
The  secret  thoughts,  imparted  with  such  trust ; 
The  wanton  talk,  the  divers  change  of  play ; 
The  friendship  sworn,  each  promise  kept  so  just, 
Wherewith  we  passed  the  winter  night  away. 
And  with  this  thought  the  blood  forsakes  the  face ; 
The  tears  berain  my  cheeks  of  deadly  hue ; 
The  which,  as  soon  as  sobbing  sighs,  alas! 
Up-supped  have,  thus  I  my  plaint  renew: 
"O  place  of  bliss!  renewer  of  my  woes! 
Give  me  account,  where  is  my  noble  fere  ?  * 
Whom  in  thy  walls  thou  dost  each  night  enclose  ; 
To  other  lief;  but  unto  me  most  dear?" 
Echo  alas !  that  doth  my  sorrow  rue, 
Returns  thereto  a  hollow  sound  of  plaint. 
Thus  I  alone,  where  all  my  freedom  grew, 
In  prison  pine,  with  bondage  and  restraint : 
And  with  remembrance  of  the  greater  grief, 
To  bcinish  the  less,  I  find  my  chief  relief. 

Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey, 
1517?-1547. 

*  companion. 


GRAY  123 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  RICHARD  WEST 

[First  published  in  *'  Alason^s  Life  and  Letters  of  G)-ay"  1775.] 

In  vain  to  me  the  smiling  mornings  shine, 

And  reddening  Phoebus  hfts  his  golden  fire  : 
The  birds  in  vain  their  amorous  descant  join  : 

Or  cheerful  fields  resume  their  green  attire  : 
These  ears,  alas  !  for  other  notes  repine, 

A  different  object  do  these  eyes  require  ; 
My  lonely  anguish  melts  no  heart  but  mine ; 

And  in  my  breast  the  imperfect  joys  expire. 
Yet  morning  smiles  the  busy  race  to  cheer, 

And  new-born  pleasure  brings  to  happier  men : 
The  fields  to  all  their  V70nted  tribute  bear  ; 

To  v^arm  their  little  loves  the  birds  complain : 
I  fruitless  mourn  to  him  that  cannot  hear. 

And  weep  the  more  because  I  weep  in  vain. 

Thomas  Gray, 
1716-1771, 

f> 

THYRSIS 

A  Monody,  to  commemorate  the  author's  friend,  Arthur 
Hugh  Clough,  who  died  at  Florence,  1861. 

[First  printed  in  Macmillan''s  Magazine,  April  1866.] 

How  changed  is  here  each  spot  man  makes  or  fills ! 

In  the  two  Hinkseys  nothing  keeps  the  same ; 
The  village-street  its  haunted  mansion  lacks, 
And  from  the  sign  is  gone  Sibylla's  name, 
And  from  the  roofs  the  twisted  chimney-stacks — 

Are  ye  too  changed,  ye  hills? 
See,  'tis  no  foot  of  unfamiliar  men 

To-night  from  Oxford  up  your  pathway  strays  I 

Here  came  I  often,  often,  in  old  days — 
Thyrsis  and  I  ;  we  still  had  Thyrsis  then. 


124  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Runs  it  not  here,  the  track  by  Childsworth  Farm, 
Past  the  high  wood,  to  where  the  elm-tree  crowns 

The  hill  behind  whose  ridge  the  sunset  flames? 
The  signal  elm,  that  looks  on  Ilsley  Downs, 
The  Vale,  the  three  lone  weirs,  the  youthful  Thames  ?— 

This  winter-eve  is  warm, 
Humid  the  air !  leafless,  yet  soft  as  spring, 

The  tender  purple  spray  on  copse  and  briers ! 

And  that  sweet  city  with  her  dreaming  spires. 
She  needs  not  June  for  beauty's  heightening. 

Lovely  all  times  she  lies,  lovely  to-night ! 
Only,  methinks,  some  loss  of  habit's  power 

Befalls  me  wandering  through  this  upland  dim. 
Once  passed  I  blindfold  here,  at  any  hour  ; 

Now  seldom  come  I,  since  I  came  with  him. 

That  single  elm-tree  bright 
Against  the  west — I  miss  it !  is  it  gone  ? 

We  prized  it  dearly ;  while  it  stood,  we  said, 

Our  friend,  the  Gipsy-scholar,  was  not  dead ; 
While  the  tree  lived,  he  in  these  fields  lived  on. 

Too  rare,  too  rare,  grow  now  my  visits  here. 

But  once  I  knew  each  field,  each  flower,  each  stick ; 

And  with  the  country-folk  acquaintance  made 
By  barn  in  threshing-time,  by  new-built  rick. 

Here,  too,  our  shepherd-pipes  we  first  assayed. 
Ah  me !  this  many  a  year 
My  pipe  is  lost,  my  shepherd's-holiday  ! 

Needs  must  I  lose  them,  needs  with  heavy  heart 

Into  the  world  and  wave  of  men  depart ; 
But  Thyrsis  of  his  own  will  went  away. 

It  irked  him  to  be  here,  he  could  not  rest. 
He  loved  each  simple  joy  the  country  yields. 

He  loved  his  mates  ;  but  yet  he  could  not  keep. 
For  that  a  shadow  loured  on  the  fields. 

Here  with  the  shepherds  and  the  silly  sheep. 


ARNOLD  125 

Some  life  of  men  unblest 

He  knew,  which  made  him  droop,  and  filled  his  head. 
He  went ;  his  piping  took  a  troubled  sound 
Of  storms  that  rage  outside  our  happy  ground ; 

He  could  not  wait  their  passing,  he  is  dead. 

So,  some  tempestuous  morn  in  early  June, 
When  the  year's  primal  burst  of  bloom  is  o'er, 

Before  the  roses  and  the  longest  day — 
When  the  garden-walks  and  all  the  grassy  floor 

With  blossoms  red  and  white  of  fallen  May 
And  chestnut  flowers  are  strewn — 
So  have  I  heard  the  cuckoo's  parting  cry, 

From  the  wet  field,  through  the  vext  garden-trees. 

Come  with  the  volleying  rain  and  tossing  breeze  : 
The  bloom  is  goae,  and  with  the  bloom  go  II 

Too  quick  despairer,  wherefore  wilt  thou  go? 
Soon  will  the  high  Midsummer  pomps  come  on, 

Soon  will  the  musk  carnations  break  and  swell. 
Soon  shall  we  have  gold-dusted  snap  dragon, 

Sweet- William  with  his  homely  cottage-smell, 
And  stocks  in  fragrant  blow ; 
Roses  that  down  the  alleys  shine  afar. 

And  open,  jasmine-muffled  lattices. 

And  groups  under  the  dreaming  garden-trees. 
And  the  full  moon,  and  the  white  evening-star. 

He  hearkens  not !  light  comer,  he  is  flown  I 
What  matters  it?  next  year  he  will  return, 

And  we  shall  have  him  in  the  sweet  spring-days. 
With  whitening  hedges,  and  uncrumpling  fern. 

And  blue-bells  trembling  by  the  forest-ways. 
And  scent  of  hay  new-mown. 
But  Thyrsis  never  more  we  swains  shall  see ; 

See  him  come  back,  and  cut  a  smoother  reed. 

And  blow  a  strain  the  world  at  last  shall  heed — 
For  Time,  not  Corydon,  hath  conquered  thee! 


126  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Alack,  for  Corydon  no  rival  now ! — 

But  when  Sicilian  shepherds  lost  a  mate, 

Some  good  survivor  with  his  flute  would  go, 
Piping  a  ditty  sad  for  a  Bion's  fate ; 

And  cross  the  unpermitted  ferry's  flow, 
And  relax  Pluto's  brow, 
And  make  leap  up  with  joy  the  beauteous  head 

Of  Proserpine,  among  whose  crowned  hair 

Are  flowers  first  opened  on  Sicilian  air. 
And  flute  his  friend,  like  Orpheus,  from  the  dead. 

0  easy  access  to  the  hearer's  grace 

When  Dorian  shepherds  sang  to  Proserpine ! 

For  she  herself  had  trod  Sicilian  fields. 
She  knew  the  Dorian  water's  gush  divine. 

She  knew  each  lily  white  which  Enna  yields, 
Each  rose  with  blushing  face ; 
She  loved  the  Dorian  pipe,  the  Dorian  strain. 

But  ah,  of  our  poor  Thames  she  never  heard  I 

Her  foot  the  Cumner  cowslips  never  stirred  ; 
And  we  should  tease  her  with  our  plaint  in  vain! 

Well !  wind-dispersed  and  vain  the  words  will  be, 
Yet,  Thyrsis,  let  me  give  my  grief  its  hour 

In  the  old  haunt,  and  find  our  tree-topped  hill ! 
Who,  if  not  I,  for  questing  here  hath  power  ? 

I  know  the  wood  which  hides  the  daffodil, 
I  know  the  Fyfield  tree, 
I  know  what  white,  what  purple  fritillaries 

The  grassy  harvest  of  the  river-fields 

Above  by  Ensham,  down  by  Sandford,  yields, 
And  what  sedged  brooks  are  Thames's  tributaries ; 

1  know  these  slopes  ;  who  knows  them  if  not  I  ? — 
But  many  a  dingle  on  the  loved  hill-side, 

With  thorns  once  studded,  old,  white-blossomed  trees. 
Where  thick  the  cowslips  grew,  and  far  descried 
High  towered  the  spikes  of  purple  orchises. 


ARNOLD  127 

Hath  since  our  day  put  by 

The  coronals  of  that  forgotten  time  ; 
Down  each  green  bank  hath  gone  the  ploughboy's  team, 
And  only  in  the  hidden  brookside  gleam 

Primroses,  orphans  of  the  flowery  prime. 

Where  is  the  girl,  who  by  the  boatman's  door, 
Above  the  locks,  above  the  boating  throng, 

Unmoored  our  skiff  when  through  the  Wytham  flats. 
Red  loosestrife  and  blond  meadow-sweet  among 

And  darting  swallows  and  light  water-gnats. 
We  tracked  the  shy  Thames  shore  ? 
Where  are  the  mowers,  who,  as  the  tiny  swell 

Of  our  boat  passing  heaved  the  river-grass. 

Stood  with  suspended  scythe  to  see  us  pass? — 
They  all  are  gone,  and  thou  art  gone  as  well  1 

Yes,  thou  art  gone  1  and  round  me  too  the  night 
In  ever-nearing  circle  weaves  her  shade. 

I  see  her  veil  draw  soft  across  the  day, 
I  feel  her  slowly  chilling  breath  invade 

The  cheek  grown  thin,  the  brown  hair  sprent  with  grey ; 
I  feel  her  finger  light 
Laid  pausefully  upon  life's  headlong  train  ;— 

The  foot  less  prompt  to  meet  the  morning  dew. 

The  heart  less  bounding  at  emotion  new, 
And  hope,  once  crushed,  less  quick  to  spring  again. 

And  long  the  way  appears,  which  seemed  so  short 
To  the  less  practised  eye  of  sanguine  youth ; 

And  high  the  mountain-tops,  in  cloudy  air, 
The  mountain-tops  where  is  the  throne  of  Truth, 

Tops  in  life's  morning-sun  so  bright  and  bare  I 
Unbreachable  the  fort 
Of  the  long-battered  world  uplifts  its  wall ; 

And  strange  and  vain  the  earthly  turmoil  grows. 

And  near  and  real  the  charm  of  thy  repose, 
And  night  as  welcome  as  a  friend  would  fall. 


128  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

But  hush !  the  upland  hath  a  sudden  loss 
Of  quiet  I— Look,  adown  the  dusk  hillside, 

A  troop  of  Oxford  hunters  going  home, 
As  in  old  days,  jovial  and  talking,  ride  ! 

From  hunting  with  the  Berkshire  hounds  they  come. 
Quick !  let  me  fly,  and  cross 
Into  yon  farther  field !— 'Tis  done ;  and  see, 

Backed  by  the  simset,  which  doth  glorify 

The  orange  and  pale  violet  evening-sky, 
Bare  on  its  lonely  ridge,  the  Tree !  the  Tree ! 

I  take  the  omen  !  Eve  lets  down  her  veil, 
The  white  fog  creeps  from  bush  to  bush  about, 

The  west  unflushes,  the  high  stars  grow  bright. 
And  in  the  scattered  farms  the  lights  come  out 

I  cannot  reach  the  signal-tree  to-night, 
Yet,  happy  omen,  hail ! 
Hear  it  from  thy  broad  lucent  Arno-vale 

(For  there  thine  earth-forgetting  eyelids  keep 

The  morningless  and  unawakening  sleep 
Under  the  flowery  oleanders  pale). 

Hear  it,  O  Thyrsis,  still  our  tree  is  there! 
Ah,  vain  1  These  English  fields,  this  upland  dim. 

These  brambles  pale  with  mist  engarlanded. 
That  lone,  sky-pointing  tree,  are  not  for  him ; 

To  a  boon  southern  country  he  is  fled, 
And  now  in  happier  air, 
Wandering  with  the  great  Mother's  train  divine 

(And  purer  or  more  subtle  soul  than  thee, 

I  trow,  the  mighty  Mother  doth  not  see) 
Within  a  folding  of  the  Apennine, 

Thou  hearest  the  immortal  chants  of  old  I— 
Putting  his  sickle  to  the  perilous  grain 

In  the  hot  cornfield  of  the  Phrygian  King, 
For  thee  the  Lityerses-song  again 

Young  Daphnis  with  his  silver  voice  doth  sing ; 


ARNOLD  129 

Sings  his  Sicilian  fold, 

His  sheep,  his  hapless  love,  his  blinded  eyes— 
And  how  a  call  celestial  round  him  rang. 
And  heaven-ward  from  the  fountain-brink  he  sprang, 

And  all  the  marvel  of  the  golden  skies. 

There  thou  art  gone,  and  me  thou  leavest  here 
Sole  in  these  fields !  yet  will  I  not  despair. 

Despair  I  will  not,  while  I  yet  descry 
'Neath  the  mild  canopy  of  English  air 

That  lonely  tree  against  the  western  sky. 
Still,  still  these  slopes,  'tis  clear, 
Our  Gipsy-Scholar  haunts,  out-living  thee ! 

Fields  where  soft  sheep  from  cages  pull  the  hay. 

Woods  with  anemonies  in  flower  till  May, 
Know  him  a  wanderer  still ;  then  why  not  me  ? 

A  fugitive  and  gracious  light  he  seeks, 
Shy  to  illumine ;  and  I  seek  it  too. 

This  does  not  come  with  houses  or  with  gold. 
With  place,  with  honour,  and  a  flattering  crew ; 

'Tis  not  in  the  world's  market  bought  and  sold— 
But  the  smooth-slipping  weeks 
Drop  by,  and  leave  its  seeker  still  untired ; 

Out  of  the  heed  of  mortals  he  is  gone. 

He  wends  unfollowed,  he  must  house  alone  ; 
Yet  on  he  fares,  by  his  own  heart  inspired. 

Thou  too,  O  Thyrsis,  on  like  quest  wast  bound  ! 
Thou  wanderedst  with  me  for  a  little  hour ! 

Men  gave  thee  nothing ;  but  this  happy  quest. 
If  men  esteemed  thee  feeble,  gave  thee  power. 

If  men  procured  thee  trouble,  gave  thee  rest. 
And  this  rude  Cumner  ground. 
Its  fir-topped  Hurst,  its  farms,  its  quiet  fields. 

Here  cam'st  thou  in  thy  jocund  youthful  time. 

Here  was  thine  height  of  strength,  thy  golden  prime  ! 
And  still  the  haunt  beloved  a  virtue  yields. 


130  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

What  though  the  music  of  thy  rustic  flute 
Kept  not  for  long  its  happy,  country  tone  ; 

Lost  it  too  soon,  and  learnt  a  stormy  note 
Of  men  contention-tost,  of  men  who  groan. 

Which  tasked  thy  pipe  too  sore,  and  tired  thy  throat — 
It  failed,  and  thou  wast  mute ! 
Yet  hadst  thou  alway  visions  of  our  light, 

And  long  with  men  of  care  thou  couldst  not  stay, 

And  soon  thy  foot  resumed  its  wandering  way, 
Left  human  haunt,  and  on  alone  till  night. 

Too  rare,  too  rare,  grow  now  my  visits  here ! 
'Mid  city-noise,  not,  as  with  thee  of  yore, 

Thyrsis !  in  reach  of  sheep-bells  is  my  home. 
—Then  through  the  great  town's  harsh,  heart-wearying 
roar. 
Let  in  thy  voice  a  whisper  often  come, 
To  chase  fatigue  and  fear  I 
Why  faintest  thou  /    /  wandered  till  I  died. 
Roam  on  I    The  light  we  sought  is  shining  still, 
Dost  thou  ask  proofs    Our  tree  yet  crowns  the  bill, 
Our  Scholar  travels  yet  the  loved  hillside, 

Matthew  Arnold, 
1822-1888. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MR  WILLIAM  HERVEY 

\First pritited  in  ^^  Poe»is"  16^6,  folio.'] 

It  was  a  dismal  and  a  fearful  night, 

Scarce  could  the  morn  drive  on  the  unwilling  light. 
When  sleep,  death's  image,  left  my  troubled  breast, 

By  something  liker  death  possessed. 
My  eyes  with  tears  did  uncommanded  flow. 

And  on  my  soul  hung  the  dull  weight 

Of  some  intolerable  fate. 
What  bell  was  that?    Ah  me!  too  much  I  know. 


COWLEY  131 

My  sweet  companion,  and  my  gentle  peer, 
Why  hast  thou  left  me  thus  unkindly  here, 
Thy  end  for  ever,  and  my  life,  to  moan  ? 

O,  thou  hast  left  me  all  alone ! 
Thy  soul  and  body,  when  Death's  agony 

Besieged  around  thy  noble  heart, 

Did  not  with  more  reluctance  part. 
Than  I,  my  dearest  friend !  do  part  from  thee. 

My  dearest  friend,  would  I  had  died  for  thee! 
Life  and  this  world  henceforth  will  tedious  be. 
Nor  shall  I  know  hereafter  what  to  do. 

If  once  my  griefs  prove  tedious  too. 
Silent  and  sad  I  walk  about  all  day, 

As  sullen  ghosts  stalk  speechless  by 

Where  their  hid  treasures  lie  ; 
Alas !  my  treasure 's  gone !  why  do  I  stay  ? 

He  was  my  friend,  the  truest  friend  on  earth  ; 
A  strong  and  mighty  influence  joined  our  birth  ; 
Nor  did  we  envy  the  most  sounding  name 

By  friendship  given  of  old  to  fame. 
None  but  his  brethren  he  and  sisters  knew 

Whom  the  kind  youth  preferred  to  me  ; 

And  even  in  that  we  did  agree, 
For  much  above  myself  I  loved  them  too. 

Say,  for  you  saw  us,  ye  immortal  lights. 
How  oft  unwearied  have  we  spent  the  nights, 
Till  the  Ledaean  stars,  so  famed  for  love. 

Wondered  at  us  from  above ! 
We  spent  them  not  in  toys,  in  lusts,  or  wine ; 

But  search  of  deep  Philosophy, 

Wit,  Eloquence,  and  Poetry, 
Arts  which  I  loved,  for  they  my  friend  were  thine. 

Ye  fields  of  Cambridge,  our  dear  Cambridge,  say 
Have  ye  not  seen  us  walking  every  day? 


132  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Was  there  a  tree  about  which  did  not  know 

The  love  betwixt  us  two? 
Henceforth,  ye  gentle  trees  for  ever  fade ; 

Or  your  sad  branches  thicker  join, 

And  into  darksome  shades  combine, 
Dark  as  the  grave  wherein  my  friend  is  laid ! 

Henceforth,  no  learned  youths  beneath  you  sing. 
Till  all  the  tuneful  birds  to  your  boughs  they  bring ; 
No  tuneful  birds  play  with  their  wonted  cheer, 

And  call  the  learned  youths  to  hear ; 
No  whistling  winds  through  the  glad  branches  fly : 

But  all,  with  sad  solemnity, 

Mute  and  unmoved  be. 
Mute  as  the  grave  wherein  my  friend  does  lie. 

To  him  my  Muse  made  haste  witli  every  strain. 
Whilst  it  was  new  and  warm  yet  from  the  brain : 
He  loved  my  worthless  rhymes,  and,  like  a  friend, 

Would  find  out  something  to  commend. 
Hence  now,  my  Muse  !  thou  canst  not  me  delight : 

Be  this  my  latest  verse. 

With  which  I  now  adorn  his  hearse ; 
And  this  my  grief,  without  thy  help,  shall  write. 

Had  I  a  wreath  of  bays  about  my  brow, 

I  should  contemn  that  flourishing  honour  now; 

Condemn  it  to  the  fire,  and  joy  to  hear 

It  rage  and  crackle  there. 
Instead  of  bays,  crown  vnth  sad  cypress  me ; 

Cypress,  which  tombs  does  beautify : 

Not  Phoebus  grieved  so  much  as  I, 
For  him  who  first  was  made  that  mournful  tree. 

Large  was  his  soul :  as  large  a  soul  as  e'er 
Submitted  to  inform  a  body  here ; 
High  as  the  place  'twas  shortly  in  heaven  to  have, 
But  low  and  humble  as  his  grave : 


COWLEY  133 

So  high  that  all  the  virtues  there  did  come, 

As  to  their  chiefest  seat 

Conspicuous  and  great : 
So  low,  that  for  me  too  it  made  a  room. 

He  scorned  this  busy  world  below,  and  all 
That  we,  mistaken  mortals !  pleasure  call ; 
Was  filled  with  innocent  gallantry  and  truth, 

Triumphant  o'er  the  sins  of  youth. 
He,  like  the  stars,  to  which  he  now  is  gone, 

That  shine  with  beams  like  flame. 

Yet  burn  not  with  the  same. 
Had  all  the  light  of  youth,  of  the  fire  none. 

Knowledge  he  only  sought,  and  so  soon  caught. 
As  if  for  him  knowledge  had  rather  sought : 
Nor  did  more  learning  ever  crowded  lie 

In  such  a  short  mortality. 
Whene'er  the  skilful  youth  discoursed  or  writ, 

Still  did  the  notions  throng 

About  his  eloquent  tongue. 
Nor  could  his  ink  flow  faster  than  his  wit. 

So  strong  a  wit  did  Nature  to  him  frame. 
As  all  things  but  his  judgment  overcame ; 
His  judgment  like  the  heavenly  moon  did  show. 

Tempering  that  mighty  sea  below. 
Oh !  had  he  lived  in  Learning's  world,  what  bound 

Would  have  been  able  to  control 

His  overpowering  soul ! 
We've  lost  in  him  arts  that  not  yet  are  found. 

His  mirth  was  the  pure  spirits  of  various  wit, 

Yet  never  did  his  God  or  friends  forget ; 

And,  when  deep  talk  and  wisdom  came  in  view. 

Retired  and  gave  to  them  their  due : 
For  the  rich  help  of  books  he  always  took, 

Though  his  own  searching  mind  before 

Was  so  with  notions  written  o'er 
As  if  wise  Nature  had  made  that  her  book. 


134  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

So  many  virtues  joined  in  him,  as  we 
Can  scarce  pick  here  and  there  in  history ; 
More  than  old  writers'  practice  e'er  could  reach ; 

As  much  as  they  could  ever  teach. 
These  did  Religion,  Queen  of  Virtues !  sway : 

And  all  their  sacred  motions  steer, 

Just  like  the  first  and  highest  sphere. 
Which  wheels  about,  and  turns  all  heaven  one  way. 

With  as  much  zeal,  devotion,  piety, 
He  always  lived,  as  other  saints  do  die. 
Still  with  his  soul  severe  account  he  kept, 

Weeping  all  debts  out  ere  he  slept : 
Then  down  in  peace  and  innocence  he  lay, 

Like  the  sun's  laborious  light, 

Which  still  in  water  sets  at  night. 
Unsullied  with  his  journey  of  the  day. 

Wondrous  young  man!  why  wert  thou  made  so  good. 
To  be  snatched  hence  ere  better  understood? 
Snatched  before  half  of  thee  enough  was  seen ! 

Thou  ripe,  and  yet  thy  life  but  green! 
Nor  could  thy  friends  take  their  last  sad  farewell ; 

But  danger  and  infectious  death 

Maliciously  seized  on  that  breath 
Where  life,  spirit,  pleasure,  always  used  to  dwell. 

But  happy  thou,  ta'en  from  this  frantic  age, 
Where  ignorance  and  hypocrisy  does  rage! 
A  fitter  time  for  heaven  no  soul  ere  chose. 

The  place  now  only  free  from  those. 
There  'mong  the  blest  thou  dost  for  ever  shine. 

And  wheresoe'er  thou  cast'st  thy  view. 

Upon  that  white  and  radiant  crew, 
Seest  not  a  soul  clothed  with  more  light  than  thine. 

And  if  the  glorious  saints  cease  not  to  know 
Their  wretched  friends  who  fight  with  life  below. 


TICKELL  135 

Thy  flame  to  me  does  still  the  same  abide, 

Only  more  pure  and  rarified. 
There,  whilst  immortal  hymns  thou  dost  rehearse, 
Thou  dost  with  holy  pity  see 
Our  dull  and  earthly  poesy, 
Where  grief  and  misery  can  be  joined  with  verse. 

Abraham  Cowley, 
1618-1667. 
¥ 


LINES  ON  ADDISON 
To  the  Right  Honourable  the  Earl  of  Warwick 

\First  printed  in  Tic/cell^ s  Preface  to  Addison's  JVorks,  1722.] 

If,  dumb  too  long,  the  drooping  Muse  hath  stayed. 

And  left  her  debt  to  Addison  unpaid  : 

Blame  not  her  silence,  Warwick,  but  bemoan. 

And  judge,  oh,  judge,  my  bosom  by  your  own. 

What  mourner  ever  felt  poetic  fires ! 

Slow  comes  the  verse  that  real  woe  inspires : 

Grief  unaffected  suits  but  ill  with  art, 

Or  flowing  numbers  with  a  bleeding  heart. 

Can  I  forget  the  dismal  night,  that  gave 
My  soul's  best  part  for  ever  to  the  grave  1 
How  silent  did  his  old  companions  tread. 
By  midnight  lamps,  the  mansions  of  the  dead. 
Through  breathing  statues,  then  unheeded  things. 
Through  rows  of  warriors,  and  through  walks  of  kings ! 
What  awe  did  the  slow  solemn  knell  inspire ; 
The  pealing  organ,  and  the  pausing  choir ; 
The  duties  by  the  lawn-robed  prelate  paid ; 
And  the  last  words,  that  dust  to  dust  conveyed  1 
While  speechless  o'er  thy  closing  grave  we  bend. 
Accept  these  tears,  thou  dear  departed  friend ! 
Oh,  gone  for  ever,  take  this  long  adieu; 
And  sleep  in  peace,  next  thy  loved  Montagu ! 


136 


ENGLISH    ELEGIES 


V.- 

Pr 


c  -  ■ 


la  wb-E"  -=- 


c- 

Iz 


TICKELL  137 

Oh,  if  sometimes  thy  spotless  form  descend, 
To  me  thy  aid,  thou  guardian  Genius,  lend  1 
When  rage  misguides  me,  or  when  fear  alarms, 
When  pain  distresses,  or  when  pleasure  charms. 
In  silent  whisp'rings  purer  thoughts  impart. 
And  turn  from  ill  a  frail  and  feeble  heart ; 
Lead  through  the  paths  thy  virtue  trod  before, 
Till  bliss  shall  join,  nor  death  can  part  us  more. 
That  awful  form  (which,  so  ye  heavens  decree, 
Must  still  be  loved  and  still  deplored  by  me) 
In  nightly  visions  seldom  fails  to  rise. 
Or,  roused  by  fancy,  meets  my  waking  eyes. 
If  business  calls,  or  crowded  courts  invite, 
Th'  unblemished  statesman  seems  to  strike  my  sight ; 
If  in  the  stage  I  seek  to  soothe  my  care, 
I  meet  his  soul,  which  breathes  in  Cato  there : 
If  pensive  to  the  rural  shades  I  rove, 
His  shape  o'ertakes  me  in  the  lonely  grove : 
'Twas  there  of  Just  and  Good  he  reasoned  strong. 
Cleared  some  great  truth,  or  raised  some  serious  song ; 
There  patient  showed  us  the  wise  course  to  steer, 
A  candid  censor,  and  a  friend  severe  ; 
There  taught  us  how  to  live ;  and  (oh  I  too  high 
The  price  for  knowledge)  taught  us  how  to  die. 


Thou  hill,  whose  brow  the  antique  structures  grace. 
Reared  by  bold  chiefs  of  Warwick's  noble  race. 
Why,  once  so  loved,  whene'er  thy  bower  appears. 
O'er  my  dim  eyeballs  glance  the  sudden  tears? 
How  sweet  were  once  thy  prospects,  fresh  and  fair. 
Thy  sloping  walks,  and  unpolluted  air  I 
How  sweet  the  glooms  beneath  thy  aged  trees. 
Thy  noon-tide  shadow,  and  thy  evening  breeze  ! 
His  image  thy  forsaken  bowers  restore  ; 
Thy  walks  and  airy  prospects  charm  no  more ; 
No  more  the  summer  in  thy  glooms  allay'd. 
Thy  evening  breezes,  and  thy  noon-day  shade. 


138  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

From  other  ills,  however  Fortune  frowned, 
Some  refuge  in  the  Muse's  art  I  found : 
Reluctant  now  I  touch  the  trembling  string; 
Bereft  of  him  who  taught  me  how  to  sing ; 
And  these  sad  accents,  murmured  o'er  his  urn. 
Betray  that  absence  they  attempt  to  mourn. 
Oh  1  must  I  then  (now  fresh  my  bosom  bleeds. 
And  Craggs  in  death  to  Addison  succeeds) 
The  verse,  begun  to  one  lost  friend,  prolong, 
And  weep  a  second  in  th'  unfinish'd  song ! 

These  works  divine,  which,  on  his  death-bed  laid, 
To  thee,  O  Craggs,  th'  expiring  Sage  conveyed ; 
Great,  but  ill-omened,  monument  of  fame ; 
Nor  he  survived  to  give,  nor  thou  to  claim. 
Swift  after  him  thy  social  spirit  flies. 
And  close  to  his,  how  soon !  thy  coffin  lies. 
Blest  pair !  whose  union  future  bards  shall  tell 
In  future  tongues  :  each  other's  boast !  farewell. 
Farewell  I  whom  join'd  in  fame,  in  friendship  tried. 
No  chance  could  sever,  nor  the  grave  divide. 

Thomas  Tickellf 
1686-1740. 

ON   GEORGE  TALBOT 

[From  "  Castara.  The  Second  Edition.  Corrected  and 
Augmented.  Lottdon.  Printed  by  B.  A.  and  T.  F.  for 
Will.  Cooke,  and  are  to  bee  sold  at  his  shop,  neare  Furnivals- 
Inne-Gaie  in  Holburne,  1635,  l2/;/(7."] 

Go  stop  the  swift-winged  moments  in  their  flight 
To  their  yet  unknown  coast,  go  hinder  night 
From  its  approach  on  day,  and  force  day  rise 
From  the  fair  East  of  some  bright  beauties  eyes : 
Else  vaunt  not  the  proud  miracle  of  verse. 
It  hath  no  power.     For  mine  from  his  black  hearse 
Redeems  not  Talbot,  who,  cold  as  the  breath 
Of  winter,  coffined  lies ;  silent  as  death, 


HABINGTON  139 

Stealing  on  the  Anch'rite,  who  even  wants  an  ear 

To  breathe  into  his  soft  expiring  prayer. 

For  had  thy  life  been  by  thy  virtues  spun 

Out  to  a  length,  thou  hadst  out-lived  the  Sun 

And  closed  the  world's  great  eye  :    or  were  not  all 

Our  wonders  fiction,  from  thy  funeral 

Thou  hadst  received  new  life,  and  lived  to  be 

The  conqueror  o'er  death,  inspired  by  me. 

But  all  we  Poets  glory  in,  is  vain 

And  empty  triumph :  Art  cannot  regain 

One  poor  hour  lost,  nor  rescue  a  small  fly 

By  a  fool's  finger  destinate  to  die. 

Live  then  in  thy  true  life,  great  soul :  for  set 

At  liberty  by  death  thou  owest  no  debt 

T'  exacting  Nature :  live,  freed  from  the  sport 

Of  time  and  fortune  in  yond'  starry  court 

A  glorious  Potentate,  while  we  below 

But  fashion  ways  to  mitigate  our  woe. 

We  follow  camps,  and  to  our  hopes  propose 

The  insulting  victor ;  not  remerabring  those 

Dismembred  trunks  who  gave  him  victory 

By  a  loathed  fate :  We  covetous  Merchants  be 

And  to  our  aims  pretend  treasure  and  sway. 

Forgetful  of  the  treasons  of  the  Sea. 

The  shootings  of  a  wounded  conscience 

We  patiently  sustain  to  serve  our  sense 

With  a  short  pleasure ;  so  we  empire  gain 

And  rule  the  fate  of  business,  the  sad  pain 

Of  action  we  contemn,  and  the  affright 

Which  with  pale  visions  still  attends  our  night. 

Our  joys  false  apparitions,  but  our  fears 

Are  certain  prophecies.     And  till  our  ears 

Reach  that  celestial  music,  which  thine  now 

So  cheerfully  receive,  we  must  allow 

No  comfort  to  our  griefs :  from  which  to  be 

Exempted,  is  in  death  to  follow  thee. 

William  Habiagton, 
1605-1654. 


140  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MR  ROBERT  LEVET 

\First  printed  in  the  '■'■  Annual  Register'"  for  1783.] 

Condemned  to  Hope's  delusive  mine 
As  on  we  toil  from  day  to  day, 

By  sudden  blasts,  or  slow  decline, 
Our  social  comforts  drop  away. 

Well  tried  through  many  a  varying  year, 
See  Levet  to  the  grave  descend. 

Officious,  innocent,  sincere. 

Of  ev'ry  friendless  name  the  friend. 

Yet  still  he  fills  Affection's  eye. 

Obscurely  wise,  and  coarsely  kind : 

Nor,  lettered  Arrogance,  deny 
Thy  praise  to  merit  unrefined. 

When  fainting  nature  called  for  aid. 

And  hovering  death  prepared  the  blow, 

His  vigorous  remedy  displayed 

The  power  of  art  without  the  show. 

In  misery's  darkest  cavern  known. 
His  useful  care  was  ever  nigh, 

Where  hopeless  anguish  poured  his  groan, 
And  lonely  want  retired  to  die. 

No  summons  mocked  by  chill  delay. 
No  petty  gain  disdained  by  pride, 

The  modest  wants  of  every  day 
The  toil  of  every  day  supplied. 

His  virtues  walked  their  narrow  round, 
Nor  made  a  pause,  nor  left  a  void : 

And  sure  the  Eternal  Master  found 
The  single  talent  well  employed. 


I 


GRAY  141 

The  busy  day,  the  peaceful  night 

Unfelt,  uncounted,  glided  by ; 
His  frame  was  firm,  his  powers  were  bright, 

Though  now  his  eightieth  year  was  nigh. 

Then  with  no  fiery  throbbing  pain, 

No  cold  gradations  of  decay, 
Death  broke  at  once  the  vital  chain, 

And  freed  his  soul  the  nearest  way. 

Samuel  Johnson, 
1709-1784. 


ELEGY  WRITTEN   IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCH- 
YARD 

["  An  Elegy  wrote  in  a  Country  Chunk    Yard  I75i-"] 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day. 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way. 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight. 

And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds. 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 

And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds : 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wand'ring  near  her  secret  bower 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade. 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mould'ring  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid, 
The  rude  Forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 


142  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  Morn, 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  bum, 

Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care : 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 

Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 
* 
Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield. 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke : 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield ! 

How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke ! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil. 
Their  homely  joys  and  destiny  obscure ; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  vnth  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Awaits  alike  th'  inevitable  hour. 
The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  Proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault. 
If  Memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise. 

Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 
Can  Honour's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust. 

Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death  ? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 
Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire ; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 


GRAY  143 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne'er  unroll ; 

Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene, 
The  dark  unfathom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear : 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village-Hampden,  that  with  dauntless  breast 

The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood. 
Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest. 

Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command. 

The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land. 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbad  :  nor  circumscribed  alone 
Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined  ; 

Forbad  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne. 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind, 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide. 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame. 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife. 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray; 

Along  the  cool  sequestered  vale  of  life 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenour  of  their  way. 

Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh. 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked, 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 


144  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  th'  unlettered  muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply : 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  Forgetfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day. 
Nor  cast  one  longing  lingering  look  behind  ! 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires : 

E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries. 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who  mindful  of  the  unhonoured  Dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate ; 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, — 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
"Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  davTn 
Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech. 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high. 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch. 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn. 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove, 

Now  drooping,  woeful  wan,  like  one  forlorn, 
Or  crazed  vnth  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  customed  hill. 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favourite  tree ; 

Another  came :  nor  yet  beside  the  rill. 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he : 


GRAY 


145 


The  next,  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 

Slow  through  the  church  way  path  we  saw  him  borne, - 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay, 

Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn." 

THE  EPITAPH 
Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth 

A  youth,  to  Fortune  and  to  Fame  unknown. 
Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth. 

And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere, 
Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send : 

He  gave  to  Misery  all  he  had,  a  tear. 
He  gained  from  Heaven  ('twas  all  he  wished)  a  friend. 

No  further  seek  his  merits  to  disclose. 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 
(There  they  aUke  in  trembhng  hope  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

Thomas  Gray, 
1716-1771 

TO  DAFFODILS 

IHesperides,  or  the  Works  both  Humane  and  Divine  of  Robert 
Herrick,  Esq.,  1648.] 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon  ; 
As  yet  the  early  rising  sun 

Has  not  attained  his  noon. 
Stay,  stay 

Until  the  hasting  day 
Has  run 

But  to  the  evensong : 
And  having  prayed  together,  we 

Will  go  with  you  along. 


146  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you ; 

We  have  as  short  a  spring; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay, 
As  you  or  any  thing. 

We  die. 
As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

Avyay, 
Like  to  the  summer's  rain ; 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew, 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 

Robert  Herrick, 
1591-1674. 
¥ 


IN  OBITUM  M.S.  Xo    MAIJ.     1614 

[First  printed  from  Lansdowne  MS.  777,  in  the  volume  issued 
by  Sir  Egerton  Br>-dges,  1815.  Mr  A.  H.  Bullen  has 
suggested,  in  his  Introduction  to  the  Edition  of  Browne's 
Poems  in  the  Muses  Library,  that  the  letters  M.S.  may 
stand  for  Maritae  Suae.  Browne's  first  wife  appears  to 
have  died  in  16 14.] 

May!    Be  thou  never  graced  with  birds  that  sing, 

Nor  Flora's  pride ! 
In  thee  all  flowers  and  roses  spring. 
Mine  only  died. 

William  Browne, 
1591-1643  ? 

AH  WHAT  AVAILS  THE  SCEPTRED  RACE 

\^^  Sinionidea"  1806.  Republished,  with  corrections,  in  ^' Gebir 
Count  lulian,  and  other  Poems  1831."]  Rose  Aylmer, 
daughter  of  Hcniy,  fourth  Baron  Ay  Inter,  died  in  1800. 

Ah  what  avails  the  sceptred  race, 

Ah  what  the  form  divine  1 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace ! 

Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine. 


ARNOLD  147 

Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful  eyes 

May  weep,  but  never  see, 
A  night  of  memories  and  of  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee. 

Walter  Savage  Laador, 
1775-1864. 


REQUIESCAT 

[From  Poems  by  Llatthew  Arnold,  1853.] 

Strew  on  her  roses,  roses. 

And  never  a  spray  of  yew ! 
In  quiet  she  reposes  ; 

Ah,  would  that  I  did  too! 

Her  mirth  the  world  required ; 

She  bathed  it  in  smiles  of  glee. 
But  her  heart  was  tired,  tired. 

And  now  they  let  her  be. 

Her  life  was  turning,  turning. 

In  mazes  of  heat  and  sound. 
But  for  peace  her  soul  was  yearning, 

And  now  peace  laps  her  round. 

Her  cabined,  ample  spirit. 

It  fluttered  and  failed  for  breath. 

To-night  it  doth  inherit 

The  vasty  hall  of  death. 

Matthew  Arnold, 
1822-1868. 


148  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

SHE  DWELT  AMONG  THE  UNTRODDEN 
WAYS 

[Lyrical  Ballads,  with  other  Poems.      1 800.] 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  Maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise 

And  very  few  to  love : 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye  ! 
— Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be ; 

But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  oh. 

The  difference  to  me ! 

William  Wordsworth, 

1770—1850. 

THREE  YEARS  SHE  GREW 

[Lyrical  Ballads,  with  other  Poems.     1800.] 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower, 

Then  Nature  said,  "A  lovelier  flower 

On  earth  was  never  sown ; 

This  Child  I  to  myself  will  take ; 

She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  vnll  make 

A  Lady  of  my  own. 

"  Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 
Both  law  and  impulse :  and  writh  me 
The  Girl,  in  rock  and  plain. 
In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 
Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 
To  kindle  or  restrain. 


WORDSWORTH  149 

"She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn, 
Or  up  the  mountain  springs ; 
And  her's  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  her's  the  silence  and  the  calm 
Of  mute  insensate  things. 

"The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 
To  her ;  for  her  the  willow  bend ; 
Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 
Even  in  the  motions  of  the  Storm 
Grace  that  shall  mould  the  Maiden's  form 
By  silent  sympathy. 

"The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 
To  her ;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 
In  many  a  secret  place 

Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 
And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 
Shall  pass  into  her  face. 

"  And  vital  feelings  of  delight 
Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 
Her  virgin  bosom  swell ; 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 
While  she  and  I  together  live 
Here  in  this  happy  dell." 

Thus  Nature  spake — The  work  was  done- 
How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run ! 
She  died,  and  left  to  me 
This  heath,  this  calm,  and  quiet  scene ; 
The  memory  of  what  has  been, 
And  never  more  will  be. 

William  Wordsworth, 
1770-1850. 


150  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

A  SLUMBER  DID  MY  SPIRIT  SEAL 

\Lyrical  Ballads,  with  other  Poems.     1800.] 

A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal ; 

I  had  no  human  fears  ; 
She  seemed  a  thing  that  could  not  feel 

The  touch  of  earthly  years. 

No  motion  has  she  now,  no  force  ; 

She  neither  hears  nor  sees ; 
Rolled  round  in  earth's  diurnal  course, 

With  rocks,  and  stones,  and  trees. 

William  Wordsworth, 
1770—1850. 

I  NEVER  SHALL  LOVE  THE  SNOW  AGAIN 

[First  printed  at  the  Rev.  C.  H.  DajiiePs private  press  in  1893  : 
reprinted  in  the  Fourth  Edition  of  "  The  .Shorter  Poems  of 
Robert  Bridges  "  1894.] 

I  never  shall  love  the  snow  again 

Since  Maurice  died : 
With  corniced  drift  it  blocked  the  lane, 
And  sheeted  in  a  desolate  plain 

The  country  side. 

The  trees  with  silvery  rime  bedight 

Their  branches  bare. 
By  day  no  sun  appeared  ;  by  night 
The  hidden  moon  shed  thievish  light 

In  the  misty  air. 

We  fed  the  birds  that  flew  around 

In  flocks  to  be  fed  : 
No  shelter  in  holly  or  brake  they  found. 
The  speckled  thrush  on  the  frozen  ground 

Lay  frozen  and  dead. 


BEAUMONT  151 

We  skated  on  stream  and  pond  ;  we  cut 

The  crinching  snow 
To  Doric  temple  or  Arctic  hut ; 
We  laughed  and  sang  at  nightfall,  shut 

By  the  fireside  glow. 

Yet  grudged  we  our  keen  delights  before 

Maurice  should  come. 
We  said,  In-door  or  out-of-door 
We  shall  love  life  for  a  month  or  more. 

When  he  is  home. 

They  brought  him  home  ;  'twas  two  days  late 

For  Christmas  day : 
Wrapped  in  white,  in  solemn  state, 
A  flower  in  his  hand,  all  still  and  straight 

Our  Maurice  lay. 

And  two  days  ere  the  year  outgave 

We  laid  him  low. 
The  best  of  us  truly  were  not  brave, 
When  we  laid  Maurice  down  in  his  grave 

Under  the  snow. 

Robert  Bridges, 

¥ 
OF  MY  DEAR  SON,  GERVASE  BEAUMONT 

[From  *'■  Bosworth-field :  with  a  Taste  of  the  Vafiety  of  other 
Poems,  left  by  Sir  John  Beatttnottt,  Baronet,  deceased  " ;  etc. 
1629.] 

Can  I,  who  have  for  others  oft  compiled 
The  songs  of  death,  forget  my  sweetest  child, 
Which,  like  a  flower  crushed,  with  a  blast  is  dead. 
And,  ere  full  time,  hangs  down  his  smiling  head. 
Expecting  with  clear  hope  to  live  anew, 
Among  the  angels  fed  with  heavenly  dew? 
We  have  this  sign  of  joy,  that  many  days, 
While  on  the  earth  his  struggling  spirit  strays, 


152  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

The  name  of  Jesus  in  his  mouth  contains, 
His  only  food,  his  sleep,  his  ease  from  pains. 
O  may  that  sound  be  rooted  in  my  mind. 
Of  which  in  him  such  strong  effect  I  find. 
Dear  Lord,  receive  my  son,  whose  winning  love 
To  me  was  like  a  friendship,  far  above 
The  course  of  nature,  or  his  tender  age. 
Whose  looks  could  all  my  bitter  griefs  assuage. 
Let  his  pure  soul,  ordained  seven  years  to  be 
In  that  frail  body,  which  was  part  of  me, 
Remain  my  pledge  in  heaven,  as  sent  to  show, 
How  to  this  port  at  every  step  I  go. 

Sir  John  Beaumont, 
1582  or  1583—1627. 


QUEM  DI  DILIGUNT 

[From  '■'■  Echoes  from  Theocritus  and  other  Sonnets  "  1885.] 

O  kiss  the  almond-blossom  on  the  rod ! 

A  thing  has  gone  from  us  that  could  not  stay. 

At  least  our  sad  eyes  shall  not  see  one  day 

All  baseness  treading  where  all  beauty  trod. 

O  kiss  the  almond-blossom  on  the  rod  ! 

For  this  our  budding  Hope  is  caught  away 

From  growth  that  is  not  other  than  decay 

To  bloom  eternal  in  the  halls  of  God. 

And  though  of  subtler  grace  we  saw  no  sign. 

No  glimmer  from  the  yet  unrisen  star, — 

Full-orbed  he  broke  upon  the  choir  divine. 

Saint  among  saints  beyond  the  golden  bar. 

Round  whose  pale  brows  new  lights  of  glory  shine, - 

The  aureoles  that  were  not  and  that  are. 

Edward  Cracroft  Lefroy. 
1855—1891. 


LANDOR  153 

ON  THE  APPROACH    OF  A  SISTER'S  DEATH 

[  The  Last  Fruit  off  an  Old  Tree,  by  Walter  Savage 
Landor,  1853.] 

Spirit  who  risest  to  eternal  day, 

0  hear  me  in  thy  flight ! 

Detain  thee  longer  on  that  opening  way 

1  would  not  if  I  might. 

Methinks  a  thousand  come  between  us  two 

Whom  thou  wouldst  rather  hear : 
Fraternal  love  thou  smilest  on ;  but  who 

Are  they  that  press  more  near? 

The  sorrowful  and  innocent  and  wronged 

Yea,  these  are  more  thy  own. 
For  these  wilt  thou  be  pleading  seraph-tongued 
(How  soon!)  before  the  throne. 

Walter  Savage  Landor, 
1775-1864. 

ON   HIS   DECEASED  WIFE 

["  Poems  etc.  on  Several  Occasions.  By  Mr  John  Milton : 
doth  English  and  Latin  etc.,  1673."  Milto?t's  second  wife, 
Catharine  Woodcock,  died  10th  February  1658.] 

Methought  I  saw  my  late  espoused  saint 
Brought  to  me  like  Alcestis  from  the  grave, 
Whom  Jove's  great  son  to  her  glad  husband  gave, 
Rescued  from  death  by  force,  though  pale  and  faint. 

Mine,  as  whom  washed  from  spot  of  child-bed  taint 
Purification  in  the  Old  Law  did  save. 
And  such,  as  yet  once  more  I  trust  to  have 
Full  sight  of  her  in  Heaven  without  restraint. 


154  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Came  vested  all  in  white,  pure  as  her  mind. 
Her  face  was  veiled  ;  yet  to  my  fancied  sight 
Love,  sweetness,  goodness,  in  her  person  shined 
So  clear  as  in  no  face  vyith  more  delight. 
But,  oh !  as  to  embrace  me  she  inclined, 
I  waked,  she  fled,  and  day  brought  back  my  night. 

John  Milton, 
1608-1674, 

ON  THE   RECEIPT  OF   MY  MOTHER'S 
PICTURE  OUT  OF  NORFOLK 

The  Gift  of  My  Cousin,  Ann  Bodham 

[From  ^' Poems  :  I.  On  the  Receipt  of  My  Mother's  Picture; 
II.  The  Dog  and  the  IVaterlily.  By  William  Cowper, 
of  the  Inner  Temple^  Esq. ,  London.  Printed  for  J.  Johnson, 
in  St  PauPs  Churchyard,"  1798.] 

Oh,  that  those  lips  had  language !    Life  has  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine — thy  own  sweet  smile  I  see, 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me ; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 
"Grieve  not,  my  child,  chase  all  thy  fears  away!" 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalise — 
The  art  that  baffles  Time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it !)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 
Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here ! 
Who  bidst  me  honour  with  an  artless  song, 
Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long, 

1  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone. 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own ; 
And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief, 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 
A  momentary  dream,  that  thou  art  she. 


COWPER  155 

My  mother !  when  I  learned  that  thou  wast  dead, 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed  ? 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son, 
Wretch  even  then,  Hfe's  journey  just  begun? 
Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss ; 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile ! — It  answers — Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day, 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu ! 
But  was  it  such  ?— It  was.— Where  thou  art  gone 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore. 
The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more ! 
Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern, 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return. 
What  ardently  I  wished,  I  long  believed. 
And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived ; 
By  expectation  every  day  beguiled, 
Dupe  of  to>'morrow,  even  from  a  child. 
Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 
I  learned,  at  last,  submission  to  my  lot ; 
But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 

Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no  more. 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor ; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day. 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way. 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapped 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  capped, 
'Tis  now  become  a  history  little  known. 
That  once  we  called  the  pastoral  house  our  own. 
Short-lived  possession !     But  the  record  fair. 
That  memory  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness  there. 
Still  outlives  many  a  storm,  that  has  effaced 
A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced. 


156  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 

That  thou  mightst  know  me  safe  and  warmly  laid ; 

Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home, 

The  biscuit,  or  confectionary  plum ; 

The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheek  bestowed 

By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  glowed : 

All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all, 

Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall, 

Ne'er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks, 

That  humour  interposed  too  often  makes ; 

All  this  still  legible  in  memory's  page, 

And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age. 

Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 

Such  honours  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may  ; 

Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere. 

Not  scorned  in  heaven,  though  little  noticed  here. 

Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the  hours. 
When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued  flowers, 
The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 
I  pricked  them  into  paper  with  a  pin, 
(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 
Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head  and  smile), 
Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear. 
Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish  them  here? 
I  would  not  trust  my  heart  ; — the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might. — 
But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such. 
So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much. 
That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion's  coast 
(The  storms  all  weathered  and  the  ocean  crossed) 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-havened  isle. 
Where  spices  breathe,  and  brighter  seasons  smile, 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods,  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below. 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay  ; 


COWPER  157 

So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift !  hast  reached  the  shore, 

"Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar"; 

And  thy  loved  consort  on  the  dangerous  tide 

Of  life  long  since  has  anchored  by  thy  side. 

But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 

Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distressed, — 

Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest-tossed, 

Sails  ripped,  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass  lost, 

And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting  force 

Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosperous  course. 

Yet,  oh,  the  thought  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he ! 

That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 

My  boast  is  not  that  I  deduce  my  birth 

From  loins  enthroned,  and  rulers  of  the  earth  ; 

But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise, — 

The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies. 

And  now,  farewell ! — Time  unrevoked  has  run 

His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wished  is  done. 

By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 

I  seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o'er  again ; 

To  have  renewed  the  joys  that  once  were  mine, 

Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine ; 

And,  while  the  wings  of  Fancy  still  are  free, 

And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee. 

Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft, — 

Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me  left. 

William  Cowper, 
1731—1800. 
¥ 

THE  WORLD  OF  LIGHT 

[From  '■'■  Silex  Scintillatts,  or  Sacred  Foetus  and  Private  Ejacula- 
tions, by  Henry  Vaughan,  Silurist.  London:  Printed  by 
T.  W.  for  H.  Blunden  at  ye  Castle  in  Cornhill,  1650."] 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light ! 

And  I  alone  sit  lingering  here; 
Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright. 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 


158  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast, 
Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove, 

Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  this  hill  is  dressed, 
After  the  sun's  remove. 

I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory, 

Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days : 

My  days,  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and  hoary. 
Mere  glimmering  and  decays. 

O  holy  Hope!  and  high  Humility, 

High  as  the  heavens  above ! 
These  are  your  walks,  and  you  have  showed  them  me 

To  kindle  my  cold  love. 

Dear,  beauteous  Death  !  the  jewel  of  the  just. 
Shining  no  where  but  in  the  dark  ; 

What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust ; 
Could  man  outlook  that  mark  I 

He  that  hath  found  some  fledged  bird's  nest,  may  know 
At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown  ; 

But  what  fair  well  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 
That  is  to  him  unknown. 

And  yet,  as  angels  in  some  brighter  dreams 
Call  to  the  soul  when  man  doth  sleep : 

So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our  wonted  themes, 
And  into  glory  peep. 

If  a  star  were  confined  into  a  tomb. 

Her  captive  flames  must  needs  burn  there ; 

But  when  the  hand  that  locked  her  up  gives  room 
She'll  shine  through  all  the  sphere. 

O  Father  of  eternal  life,  and  all 

Created  glories  under  Thee ! 
Resume  thy  spirit  from  this  world  of  thrall 

Into  true  liberty. 


KING  159 

Either  disperse  these  mists,  which  blot  and  fill 

My  perspective— still— as  they  pass  : 
Or  else  remove  me  hence  unto  that  hill, 
Where  I  shall  need  no  glass. 

Henry  Vaugban, 
1622-1695. 

THE  EXEQUY 

[On  his  -wife,  who  died  about  the  year  1625.  The  "  Exequy'" 
first  appears  in  "  Poems,  Elegies,  Paradoxes,  and  Sonnets^'' 
published  anonymously  in  1657.] 

Accept,  thou  Shrine  of  my  dead  Saint, 

Instead  of  Dirges  this  complaint ; 

And  for  sweet  flowers  to  crown  thy  hearse, 

Receive  a  strew  of  weeping  verse 

From  thy  grieved  friend,  whom  thou  might'st  see 

Quite  melted  into  tears  for  thee. 

Dear  loss !  since  thy  untimely  fate. 

My  task  hath  been  to  meditate 

On  thee,  on  thee :  thou  art  the  book, 

The  library,  whereon  I  look. 

Though  almost  blind.     For  thee  (loved  clay) 

I  languish  out,  not  live,  the  day, 

Using  no  other  exercise 

But  what  I  practise  with  mine  eyes : 

By  which  wet  glasses,  I  find  out 

How  lazily  time  creeps  about 

To  one  that  mourns :  this,  only  this, 

My  exercise  and  business  is : 

So  I  compute  the  weary  hours 

With  sighs  dissolved  into  showers. 

Nor  wonder,  if  my  time  go  thus 

Backward  and  most  preposterous ; 


i6o  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Thou  hast  benighted  me ;  thy  set 
This  Eve  of  blackness  did  beget, 
Who  wast  my  day,  (though  overcast, 
Before  thou  hadst  thy  Noon-tide  past) 
And  I  remember  must  in  tears, 
Thou  scarce  hadst  seen  so  many  years 
As  Day  tells  hours.     By  thy  clear  Sun, 
My  love  and  fortune  first  did  run : 
But  thou  wilt  never  more  appear 
Folded  within  my  Hemisphere, 
Since  both  thy  light  and  motion 
Like  a  fled  Star  is  fallen  and  gone. 
And,  'tw^ixt  me  and  my  soul's  dear  wish 
The  earth  now  interposed  is, 
Which  such  a  strange  eclipse  doth  make, 
As  ne'er  was  read  in  Almanack. 


I  could  allow  thee,  for  a  time, 
To  darken  me  and  my  sad  clime, 
Were  it  a  month,  a  year,  or  ten, 
I  would  thy  exile  live  till  then  ; 
And  all  that  space  my  mirth  adjourn. 
So  thou  wouldst  promise  to  return ; 
And  putting  off  thy  ashy  shroud. 
At  length  disperse  this  sorrow's  cloud. 

But  woe  is  me !  the  longest  date 
Too  narrow  is  to  calculate 
These  empty  hopes  :  never  shall  I 
Be  so  much  blest  as  to  descry 
A  glimpse  of  thee,  till  that  day  come. 
Which  shall  the  earth  to  cinders  doom, 
And  a  fierce  Fever  must  calcine 
The  body  of  this  world,  like  thine, 
My  Little  World !  That  fit  of  fire 
Once  off,  our  bodies  shall  aspire 
To  our  souls'  bliss :  then  we  shall  rise. 
And  view  ourselves  with  clearer  eyes 


KING  i6i 

In  that  calm  Region,  where  no  night 
Can  hide  us  from  each  other's  sight. 

Mean  time,  thou  hast  her,  earth ;  much  good 

May  my  harm  do  thee.     Since  it  stood 

With  Heaven's  will,  I  might  not  call 

Her  longer  mine,— I  give  thee  all 

My  short-lived  right  and  interest 

In  her,  whom  living  I  loved  best: 

With  a  most  free  and  bounteous  grief, 

I  give  thee,  what  I  could  not  keep. 

Be  kind  to  her,  and  prithee  look 

Thou  write  into  thy  Doomsday  book 

Each  parcel  of  this  Rarity, 

Which  in  thy  Casket  shrined  doth  lie  : 

See  that  thou  make  thy  reckoning  straight. 

And  yield  her  back  again  by  weight; 

For  thou  must  audit  on  thy  trust 

Each  grain  and  atom  of  this  dust, 

As  thou  wilt  answer  Him  that  lent, 

Not  gave  thee,  my  dear  Monument. 

So  close  the  ground,  and  'bout  her  shade 

Black  curtains  draw ;— my  Bride  is  laid. 

Sleep  on,  my  Love,  in  thy  cold  bed, 

Never  to  be  disquieted ! 

My  last  good-night !  Thou  wilt  not  wake. 

Till  I  thy  fate  shall  overtake : 

Till  age,  or  grief,  or  sickness,  must 

Marry  my  body  to  that  dust 

It  so  much  loves ;  and  fill  the  room 

My  heart  keeps  empty  in  thy  Tomb. 

Stay  for  me  there ;  I  will  not  fail 

To  meet  thee  in  that  hollow  Vale : 

And  think  not  much  of  my  delay ; 

I  am  already  on  the  way. 

And  follow  thee  with  all  the  speed 

Desire  can  make,  or  sorrows  breed. 


i62  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Each  minute  is  a  short  degree, 

And  every  hour  a  step  towards  thee. 

At  night,  when  I  betake  to  rest. 

Next  morn  I  rise  nearer  my  West 

Of  life,  almost  by  eight  hours  sail 

Than  when  sleep  breathed  his  drowsy  gale. 

Thus  from  the  Sun  my  Bottom  steers, 
And  my  day's  compass  downward  bears : 
Nor  labour  I  to  stem  the  tide, 
Through  which  to  thee  I  swiftly  glide. 

*Tis  true,  with  shame  and  grief  I  yield, 

Thou,  like  the  Van,  first  took'st  the  field, 

And  gotten  hast  the  victory, 

In  thus  adventuring  to  die 

Before  me,  whose  more  years  might  crave 

A  just  precedence  in  the  grave. 

But  hark !  My  pulse,  like  a  soft  drum, 

Beats  my  approach,  tells  thee  I  come ; 

And  slow  howe'er  my  marches  be, 

I  shall  at  last  sit  down  by  Thee. 

The  thought  of  this  bids  me  go  on, 
And  wait  my  dissolution 
With  hope  and  comfort.     Dear,  (forgive 
The  crime,)  I  am  content  to  live 
Divided,  with  but  half  a  heart. 
Till  we  shall  meet  and  never  part. 

Henry  King,  Bishop  of  Chichester, 

1592-1669. 


BROWNE  163 

AN   ELEGY 

\_This  poem  was  first  printed  wider  the  title  of  Elegeia,  by 
F.  G.  Waldron,  in  "^  Collection  of  Miscellaneous  Poetry" 
(1802),  from  a  MS.  in  his  possession,  dated  1625,  the 
authorship  being  assigned  to  Donne.  Dr  Grosart  re- 
printed it  in  his  edition  of  Donne^s  Poems,  and  gave  it  the 
title  of  ^''  Lafuetit  for  his  IVife."  It  is  found,  however,  iti 
Browne's  autog7-aph  list  of  his  own  poe?ns.  See  Mr  Gordon 
Goodwij^s  "  Poems  of  IVilliani  Browne,"  ii.  348.] 

Is  Death  so  great  a  gamester,  that  he  throws 
Still  at  the  fairest,  and  must  I  still  lose? 
Are  we  all  but  as  tarriers  first  begun, 
Made  and  together  put  to  be  undone? 
Will  all  the  rank  of  friends,  in  whom  I  trust. 
Like  Sodom's  trees  yield  me  no  fruit  but  dust? 
Must  all  I  love,  as  careless  sparks  that  fly 
Out  of  a  flint,  but  show  their  worth  and  die  ? 

O,  where  do  my  for  ever  losses  tend  ? 
I  could  already  by  some  buried  friend 
Count  my  unhappy  years ;  and  should  the  sun 
Leave  me  in  darkness,  as  her  loss  hath  done. 
By  those  few  friends  I  have  yet  to  entomb, 
I  might,  I  fear,  account  my  years  to  come. 
What  need  our  canons  then  be  so  precise 
In  registers  for  our  nativities  ? 
They  keep  us  but  in  bonds,  and  strike  with  fears 
Rich  parents,  till  their  children  be  of  years  ; 
For  should  they  lose  and  mourn,  they  might,  as  I, 
Number  their  years  by  every  elegy. 
These  books  to  sum  our  days  might  well  have  stood 
In  use  vTith  those  that  lived  before  the  Flood, 
When  she  indeed  that  forceth  me  to  write. 
Should  have  been  born,  had  Nature  done  her  right ; 
And  at  five  hundred  years  been  less  decayed, 
Than  now  at  fifteen  is  the  fairest  maid. 
But  Nature  had  not  her  perfection  then. 
Or  being  loath  for  such  long-living  men, 


i64  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

To  spend  the  treasure  which  she  held  most  pure, 

She  gave  them  women  apter  to  endure ; 

Or  providently  knowing  there  were  more 

Countries  and  islands  which  she  was  to  store, 

Nature  was  thrifty,  and  did  think  it  well, 

If  for  some  one  part  each  one  did  excel : 

As  this  for  her  neat  hand,  that  for  her  hair, 

A  third  for  her  sweet  eyes,  a  fourth  was  fair  : 

And  'tis  approved  by  him,  who  could  not  draw 

The  Queen  of  Love  till  he  a  hundred  saw. 

Seldom  all  beauties  met  in  one,  till  she. 

All  other  lands  else  stored,  came  finally 

To  people  our  sweet  Isle :  and  seeing  now 

Her  substance  infinite,  she  'gan  to  bow 

To  lavishness  in  every  nuptial  bed. 

And  she  her  fairest  was  that  now  is  dead  ; 

Dead  as  a  blossom  forced  from  the  tree, 

And  if  a  maiden,  fair  and  good  as  she. 

Tread  on  thy  grave,  O  let  her  there  profess 

Herself  for  evermore  an  anchoress. 

Let  her  be  deathless !    Let  her  still  be  young  ! 

Without  this  means  we  have  no  verse  nor  tongue 

To  say  how  much  I  loved,  or  let  us  see 

How  great  our  loss  was  in  the  loss  of  thee. 

Or  let  the  purple  violet  grow  there. 

And  feel  no  revolution  of  the  year  ; 

But  full  of  dew  with  ever-drooping  head. 

Show  how  I  live,  since  my  best  hopes  are  dead. 

Dead  1  as  the  world  to  virtue.     Murd'rers,  thieves 
Can  have  their  pardons,  or  at  least  reprieves. 
The  sword  of  Justice  hath  been  often  won 
By  letters  from  an  execution. 
Yet  vows  nor  prayers  could  not  keep  thee  here. 
Nor  shall  I  see,  the  next  returning  year. 
Thee  with  the  roses  spring  and  live  again. 
Thou'rt  lost  for  ever  as  a  drop  of  rain 
Fall'n  in  a  river  1  for  as  soon  I  may 
Take  up  that  drop,  or  meet  the  same  at  sea. 


DONNE  165 

And  know  it  there,  as  e'er  redeem  thee  gone, 
Or  know  thee  in  the  grave,  when  I  have  one. 

O  I  had  that  hollow  vault,  where  thou  dost  lie, 
An  echo  in  it,  my  strong  fantasy 
Would  draw  me  soon  to  think  her  words  were  thine, 
And  I  would  hourly  come,  and  to  thy  shrine 
Talk  as  I  often  used  to  talk  with  thee, 
And  frame  my  words  that  thou  might'st  answer  me 
As  when  thou  liv'd'st :  I  'd  sigh,  and  say  I  love, 
And  thou  should'st  do  so  too,  till  we  had  moved 
With  our  complaints  to  tears  each  marble  cell 
Of  those  dead  neighbours  which  about  thee  dwell. 

And  when  the  holy  father  came  to  say 
His  orisons,  I  'd  ask  him  if  the  day 
Of  miracles  were  past,  or  whether  he 
Knew  any  one  whose  faith  and  piety 
Could  raise  the  dead ;  but  he  would  answer,  none 
Can  bring  thee  back  to  life  ;  though  many  one 
Our  cursed  days  afford,  that  dare  to  thrust 
Their  hands  profane  to  raise  the  sacred  dust 
Of  holy  saints  out  of  their  beds  of  rest. 

Abhorred  days !  O  may  there  none  molest 
Thy  quiet  peace !  but  in  thy  ark  remain 
Untouched,  as  those  the  old  one  did  contain, 
Till  he  that  can  reward  thy  greatest  worth, 
Shall  send  the  peaceful  Dove  to  call  thee  forth. 

William  Browne, 
1591-1643  ? 


ELEGY  ON  MISTRESS  BOULSTRED 

["  Poems  by  J.  D.,  with  Elegies  on  the  Author's  Death.     1633."] 

Death  I  recant,  and  say,  "  Unsaid  by  me, 
Whate'er  hath  slipped,  that  might  diminish  thee." 
Spiritual  treason,  atheism  'tis  to  say 
That  any  can  thy  summons  disobey. 


i66  ENGLISH  ELEGIES 

Th'  earth's  face  is  but  thy  table ;  there  are  set 

Plants,  cattle,  men,  dishes  for  death  to  eat 

In  a  rude  hunger  now  he  millions  draws 

Into  his  bloody,  or  plaguy,  or  starved  jaws. 

Now  he  will  seem  to  spare,  and  doth  more  waste, 

Eating  the  best  first,  well  preserved  to  last. 

Now  wantonly  he  spoils,  and  eats  us  not. 

But  breaks  off  friends,  and  lets  us  piecemeal  rot. 

Nor  will  this  earth  serve  him ;  he  sinks  the  deep 

Where  harmless  fish  monastic  silence  keep ; 

Who— were  Death  dead— by  roes  of  living  sand 

Might  sponge  that  element,  and  make  it  land. 

He  rounds  the  air,  and  breaks  the  hymnic  notes 

In  birds',  heaven's  choristers,  organic  throats ; 

Which,  if  they  did  not  die,  might  seem  to  be 

A  tenth  rank  in  the  heavenly  hierarchy. 

O  strong  and  long-lived  death,  how  earnest  thou  in? 

And  how  without  creation  didst  begin? 

Thou  hast,  and  shalt  see  dead,  before  thou  diest, 

All  the  four  Monarchies,  and  Antichrist. 

How  could  I  think  thee  nothing,  that  see  now 

In  all  this  All  nothing  else  is,  but  thou? 

Our  births  and  lives,  vices  and  virtues,  be 

Wasteful  consumptions,  and  degrees  of  thee. 

For  we,  to  live,  our  bellows  wear  and  breath. 

Nor  are  we  mortal,  dying,  dead,  but  death. 

And  though  thou  be'st,  O  mighty  bird  of  prey. 

So  much  reclaimed  by  GOD,  that  thou  must  lay 

All  that  thou  kill'st  at  His  feet,  yet  doth  He 

Reserve  but  few,  and  leaves  the  most  to  thee. 

And  of  those  few  now  thou  hast  overthrown 

One  whom  thy  blow  makes,  not  ours,  nor  thine  own. 

She  was  more  storeys  high  ;  hopeless  to  come 

To  her  soul,  thou  hast  offered  at  her  lower  room. 

Her  soul  and  body  was  a  king  and  court ; 

But  thou  hast  both  of  captain  missed  and  fort. 

As  houses  fall  not,  though  the  kings  remove. 

Bodies  of  saints  rest  for  their  souls  above. 


DONNE  167 

Death  gets  'twixt  souls  and  bodies  such  a  place 

As  sin  insinuates  'twixt  just  men  and  grace ; 

Both  work  a  separation,  no  divorce. 

Her  soul  is  gone  to  usher  up  her  corse, 

Which  shall  be  almost  another  soul— for  there 

Bodies  are  purer  than  best  souls  are  here. 

Because  in  her,  her  virtues  did  outgo 

Her  years,  would'st  thou,  O  emulous  death,  do  so. 

And  kill  her  young  to  thy  loss?  must  the  cost 

Of  beauty  and  wit,  apt  to  do  harm,  be  lost? 

What   though    thou    found'st  her    proof  'gainst  sins  of 

youth  ? 
O,  every  age  a  diverse  sin  pursueth. 
Thou  should'st  have  stayed,  and  taken  better  hold. 
Shortly,  ambitious ;  covetous,  when  old. 
She  might  have  proved ;  and  such  devotion 
Might  once  have  strayed  to  superstition. 
If  all  her  virtues  must  have  grown,  yet  might 
Abundant  virtue  have  bred  a  proud  delight. 
Had  she  persever'd  just,  there  would  have  been 
Some  that  would  sin,  misthinking  she  did  sin. 
Such  as  would  call  her  friendship,  love,  and  feign 
To  sociableness,  a  name  profane. 
Or  sin  by  tempting,  or,  not  daring  that. 
By  wishing,  though  they  never  told  her  what. 
Thus  might'st  thou  have  slain  more  souls  had'st  thou 

not  crossed 
Thyself,  and  to  triumph,  thine  army  lost. 
Yet  though  these  ways  be  lost,  thou  hast  left  one, 
Which  is,  immoderate  grief  that  she  is  gone. 
But  we  may  'scape  that  sin,  yet  weep  as  much  ; 
Our  tears  are  due  because  we  are  not  such. 
Some  tears,  that  knot  of  friends,  her  death  must  cost, 
Because  the  chain  is  broke,  but  no  link  lost. 

John  Donne, 
1573—1631. 


i68  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

ELEGY  ON   MISTRESS   BOULSTRED 

["  Poems  by  J.  D.,  with  Elegies  on  the  Author's  Death.    1635."] 

Death,  be  not  proud,  thy  hand  gave  not  this  blow ; 

Sin  was  her  captive,  whence  thy  power  doth  flow ; 

The  executioner  of  wrath  thou  art, 

But  to  destroy  the  just  is  not  thy  part. 

Thy  coming,  terror,  anguish,  grief  denounces ; 

Her  happy  state,  courage,  ease,  joy  pronounces. 

From  out  the  crystal  palace  of  her  breast, 

The  clearer  soul  was  called  to  endless  rest, 

— Not  by  the  thundering  voice,  wherewith  GOD  threats. 

But  as  with  crowned  saints  in  heaven  He  treats — 

And,  waited  on  by  angels,  home  was  brought, 

To  joy  that  it  through  many  dangers  sought. 

The  key  of  mercy  gently  did  unlock 

The  doors  'twixt  heaven  and  it,  when  life  did  knock. 

Nor  boast  the  fairest  frame  was  made  thy  prey. 
Because  to  mortal  eyes  it  did  decay. 
A  better  witness  than  thou  art,  assures. 
That  though  dissolved,  it  yet  a  space  endures  ; 
No  dram  thereof  shall  want  or  loss  sustain. 
When  her  best  soul  inhabits  it  again. 
Go  then  to  people  cursed  before  they  were ; 
Their  souls  in  triumph  to  thy  conquest  bear. 
Glory  not  thou  thyself  in  these  hot  tears 
Which  our  face,  not  for  her,  but  our  harm  wears ; 
The  mourning  livery  given  by  grace,  not  thee. 
Which  wills  our  souls  in  these  streams  washed  should  be  ; 
And  on  our  hearts,  her  memory's  best  tomb, 
In  this  her  epitaph  doth  write  thy  doom. 
Blind  were  those  eyes,  saw  not  how  bright  did  shine 
Through  flesh's  misty  veil  those  beams  divine ; 
Deaf  were  the  ears,  not  charmed  with  that  sweet  sound 
Which  did  i'  th'  spirit's  instructed  voice  abound ; 
Of  flint  the  conscience,  did  not  yield  and  melt, 
At  what  in  her  last  act  it  saw  and  felt. 


LORD   HERBERT  169 

Weep  not,  nor  grudge  then  to  have  lost  her  sight, 
Taught  thus,  our  after  stay's  but  a  short  night ; 
But  by  all  souls  not  by  corruption  choked 
Let  in  high  raised  notes  that  power  be  invoked. 
Calm  the  rough  seas  by  vvhich  she  sails  to  rest 
From  sorrovys  here  to  a  kingdom  ever  blest 
And  teach  this  hymn  of  her  with  joy,  and  sing, 
"The  grave  no  conquest  gets.  Death  hath  no  sting." 

John  Doane, 
1573—1631, 
¥ 


ELEGY  OVER  A  TOMB 

[From  "  Occasional  Verses  of  Edward  Loi-d  Herbert,  Baron  of 
Cherbury  and  Castle- Island.  Deceased  in  August,  1648. 
London.     Printed  by  T.  I^.  for  Thomas  Dring.     1665."] 

Must  I  then  see,  alas!  eternal  night 

Sitting  upon  those  fairest  eyes, 
And  closing  all  those  beams,  which  once  did  rise 

So  radiant  and  bright. 
That  light  and  heat  in  them  to  us  did  prove 

Knowledge  and  Love? 

Oh,  if  you  did  delight  no  more  to  stay 

Upon  this  low  and  earthly  stage. 
But  rather  chose  an  endless  heritage, 

Tell  us  at  least,  we  pray, 
Where  all  the  beauties  that  those  ashes  owed 

Are  now  bestowed? 

Doth  the  Sun  now  his  light  with  yours  renew? 

Have  Waves  the  curling  of  your  hair? 
Did  you  restore  unto  the  Sky  and  Air 

The  red  and  white  and  blue? 
Have  you  vouchsafed  to  flowers  since  your  death, 

That  sweetest  breath  ? 


170  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Had  not  Heaven's  Lights  else  in  their  houses  slept, 

Or  to  some  private  life  retired? 
Must  not  the  Sky  and  Air  have  else  conspired 

And  in  their  Regions  wept? 
Must  not  each  flower  else  the  earth  could  breed 

Have  been  a  weed? 

But  thus  enriched  may  we  not  yield  some  cause 
Why  they  themselves  lament  no  more, 

That  must  have  changed  course  they  held  before, 
And  broke  their  proper  Laws, 

Had  not  your  Beauties  given  their  second  birth 
To  Heaven  and  Earth? 

Tell  us,  for  Oracles  must  still  ascend 

For  those  that  crave  them  at  your  tomb  ; 
Tell  us,  where  are  those  Beauties  now  become. 

And  what  they  now  intend  ; 
Tell  us,  alas !  that  cannot  tell  our  grief, 
Or  hope  relief. 

Lord  Herbert  of  Cherbury, 
1583-1648. 
¥ 

To  the  Immortal  Memory  of  the 

Fairest  and  Most  Virtuous  Lady,  the 

LADY   PENELOPE    CLIFTON 

[From  "■'  Bosworth-Jield:  zvilh  a  Taste  of  the  Variety  of  other 
poems,  left  by  Sir  John  Beaumont,  Baronet,  deceased,  set 
forth  by  his  sonne.  Sir  John  Beaumont,  Baronet ;  and 
dedicated  to  the  King's  most  Excellent  Maiestie.     1629."] 

Her  tongue  hath  ceased  to  speak,  which  might  make  dumb  : 
All  tongues  might  stay,  all  pens,  all  hands  benumb : 
Yet  I  must  write :  O  that  it  might  have  been 
While  she  had  lived,  and  had  my  verses  seen, 
Before  sad  cries  deafd  my  untuned  ears. 
When  verses  flowed  more  easily  than  tears. 


BEAUMONT  171 

Ah  why  neglected  I  to  write  her  praise, 

And  paint  her  virtues  in  those  happy  daysl 

Then  my  now  trembling  hand  and  dazzled  eye, 

Had  seldom  failed,  having  the  pattern  by ; 

Or  had  it  erred,  or  made  some  strokes  amiss, 

— For  who  can  portray  Virtue  as  it  is  ? — 

Art  might  with  Nature  have  maintained  her  strife. 

By  curious  lines  to  imitate  true  life. 

But  now  those  pictures  want  their  lively  grace, 

As  after  death  none  can  well  draw  the  face  : 

We  let  our  friends  pass  idly,  like  our  time. 

Till  they  be  gone,  and  then  V7e  see  our  crime. 

And  think  what  worth  in  them  might  have  been  known. 

What  duties  done,  and  what  affection  shown : 

Untimely  knowledge,  which  so  dear  doth  cost. 

And  then  begins  when  the  thing  known  is  lost ; 

Yet  this  cold  love,  this  envy,  this  neglect. 

Proclaims  us  modest,  while  our  due  respect 

To  goodness  is  restrained  by  servile  fear, 

Lest  to  the  world  it  flattery  should  appear: 

As  if  the  present  hours  deserved  no  praise. 

But  ages  passed,  whose  knowledge  only  stays 

On  that  weak  prop  which  memory  sustains. 

Should  be  the  proper  subject  of  our  strains : 

Or  as  if  foolish  men  ashamed  to  sing 

Of  violets  and  roses  in  the  Spring, 

Should  tarry  till  the  flowers  were  blown  away, 

And  till  the  Muses'  life  and  heat  decay ; 

Then  is  the  fury  slaked,  the  vigour  fled. 

As  here  in  mine,  since  it  with  her  was  dead: 

Which  still  may  sparkle,  but  shall  flame  no  more. 

Because  no  time  shall  her  to  us  restore : 

Yet  may  these  sparks,  thus  kindled  with  her  fame, 

Shine  brighter  and  live  longer  than  some  flame. 

Here  expectation  urgeth  me  to  tell 

Her  high  perfections,  which  the  world  knew  well. 

But  they  are  far  beyond  my  skill  to  unfold : 

They  were  poor  virtues  if  they  might  be  told. 


172  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

But  thou,  who  fain  would'st  take  a  general  view 

Of  timely  fruits  which  in  this  garden  grew, 

On  all  the  virtues  in  men's  actions  look. 

Or  read  their  names  writ  in  some  moral  book ; 

And  sum  the  number  which  thou  there  shalt  find : 

So  many  lived,  and  triumphed  in  her  mind. 

Nor  dwelt  these  Graces  in  a  house  obscure, 

But  in  a  palace  fair  which  might  allure 

The  wretch  who  no  respect  to  Virtue  bore, 

To  love  it  for  the  garments  that  it  wore. 

So  that  in  her  the  body  and  the  soul 

Contended,  which  should  most  adorn  the  whole. 

O  happy  soul  for  such  a  body  meet. 

How  are  the  firm  chains  of  that  union  sweet, 

Dissevered  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye ! 

And  we  amazed  dare  ask  no  reason  why. 

But  silent  think,  that  GOD  is  pleased  to  show, 

That  He  hath  works  whose  end  we  cannot  know: 

Let  us  then  cease  to  make  a  vain  request. 

To  learn  why  die  the  fairest,  why  the  best ; 

For  all  these  things,  which  mortals  hold  most  dear. 

Most  slippery  are,  and  yield  less  joy  than  fear ; 

And  being  lifted  high  by  men's  desire. 

Are  more  perspicuous  marks  for  heavenly  fire ; 

And  are  laid  prostrate  with  the  first  assault. 

Because  our  love  makes  their  desert  their  fault. 

Thou  Justice,  us  to  some  amends  should  move 

For  this  our  fruitless,  nay  our  hurtful  love ; 

We  in  their  honour  piles  of  stone  erect 

With  their  dear  names,  and  worthy  praises  decked : 

But  since  those  fail,  their  glories  we  rehearse, 

In  better  marble,  everlasting  verse : 

By  which  we  gather  from  consuming  hours, 

Some  parts  of  them,  though  Time  the  rest  devours ; 

Then  if  the  Muses  can  forbid  to  die. 

As  we  their  priests  suppose,  why  may  not  I  ? 

Although  the  least  and  hoarsest  in  the  quire, 

Clear  beams  of  blessed  immortality  inspire 


POPE  173 

To  keep  thy  blest  remembrance  ever  young, 

Still  to  be  freshly  in  all  ages  sung : 

Or  if  my  work  in  this  unable  be, 

Yet  shall  it  ever  live,  upheld  by  thee : 

For  thou  Shalt  live,  though  poems  should  decay, 

Since  parents  teach  their  sons  thy  praise  to  say  ; 

And  to  posterity  from  hand  to  hand 

Convey  it  with  their  blessing  and  their  land. 

Thy  quiet  rest  from  death  this  good  derives  ; 

Instead  of  one,  it  gives  thee  many  lives : 

While  these  lines  last,  thy  shadow  dwelleth  here, 

Thy  fame  itself  extendeth  everywhere  ; 

In  Heaven  our  hopes  have  placed  thy  better  part : 

Thine  image  lives  in  thy  sad  husband's  heart : 

Who  as,  when  he  enjoyed  thee,  he  was  chief 

In  love  and  comfort,  so  is  he  now  in  grief. 

Sir  John  Beaumont, 
1582  or  1583—1627. 


ON  THE  MONUMENT  OF  THE  HONOURABLE 
ROBERT  DIGBY,  AND  OF  HIS  SISTER 
MARY,  erected  by  their  father,  the  Lord  Digby,  in 
the  Church  of  Sherborne  in  Dorsetshire,  1727 

[This  epitaph  first  appeared  in  "  Lewis's  Miscellany"  1730.] 

Go  I  fair  example  of  untainted  youth 

Of  modest  wisdom,  and  pacific  truth : 

Composed  in  sufferings,  and  in  joy  sedate. 

Good  vyithout  noise,  vdthout  pretension  great. 

Just  of  thy  word,  in  every  thought  sincere, 

Who  knew  no  wish  but  what  the  world  might  hear : 

Of  softest  manners,  unaffected  mind. 

Lover  of  peace,  and  friend  of  human  kind : 

Go  live !  for  Heaven's  eternal  year  is  thine. 

Go,  and  exalt  thy  moral  to  divine. 


174  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

And  thou,  blest  maid !  attendant  on  his  doom, 
Pensive  hast  followed  to  the  silent  tomb, 
Steer'd  the  same  course  to  the  same  quiet  shore, 
Not  parted  long,  and  now  to  part  no  more  ! 
Go  then,  where  only  bliss  sincere  is  known  I 
Go,  where  to  love  and  to  enjoy  are  one ! 
Yet  take  these  tears,  mortality's  relief. 
And  till  we  share  your  joys,  forgive  our  grief: 
These  little  rites,  a  stone,  a  verse  receive ; 
'Tis  all  a  father,  all  a  friend  can  give! 

Alexander  Pope, 
1688—1744. 
H 

THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN   MOORE  AT 
CORUNNA 

[First  printed  in  the  "  Newry   Telegraph"  in   1817,   with 
the  initials,   C.  W.] 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried ; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night. 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning  ; 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 

And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 
Not  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  w^ound  him  ; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow ; 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was  dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 


COWPER  175 

We  thought  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 

And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his  head, 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow! 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone. 

And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him, — 
But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 

In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done 
When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down. 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory ; 
We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone — 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 

Charles  Wolfe, 
1791-1823, 


ON  THE  LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL  GEORGE 

Written  when  the  News  Arrived 
To  the  March  in  Scipio 

[First  printed  by  Hayley  in  "  The  Life  and  Posthtimous 
Writings  of  William  Cowper,  Esij.,  with  an  Introductory 
Letter  to  the  Right  Honourable  Earl  Cowper.  By  William 
Hayley,  Esq.  1803."] 

Toll  for  the  brave ! 

The  brave  that  are  no  more  1 
All  sunk  beneath  the  wave. 

Fast  by  their  native  shore ! 


176  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave, 
Whose  courage  well  was  tried, 

Had  made  the  vessel  heel, 
And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A  land-breeze  shook  the  shrouds. 

And  she  was  overset ; 
Down  went  the  Royal  George, 

With  all  her  crew  complete. 

Toll  for  the  brave ! 

Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone ; 
His  last  sea-fight  is  fought ; 

His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle  ; 

No  tempest  gave  the  shock ; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak ; 

She  ran  upon  no  rock. 

His  sword  was  in  its  sheath ; 

His  fingers  held  the  pen, 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down 

With  twice  four  hundred  men. 

Weigh  the  vessel  up. 

Once  dreaded  by  our  foes ! 
And  mingle  with  our  cup 

The  tear  that  England  owes. 

Her  timbers  yet  are  sound. 

And  she  may  float  again. 
Full  charged  with  England's  thunder, 

And  plough  the  distant  main. 

But  Kempenfelt  is  gone. 
His  victories  are  o'er  ; 
And  he  and  his  eight  hundred 
Shall  plough  the  wave  no  more. 

William  Cowper, 
1731—1800, 


TENNYSON  177 

ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF 
WELLINGTON 

[Ocle  OH  the  Death  of  the   Duke   of  Wellington.      By  Alfred 
Tennyion,  Poet- Laureate.    London  :  Edward  Moxon,  1852.] 

I 
Bury  the  Great  Duke 

With  an  empire's  lamentation, 
Let  us  bury  the  Great  Duke 

To  the  noise  of  the  mourning  of  a  mighty  nation, 
Mourning  when  their  leaders  fall, 
Warriors  carry  the  warrior's  pall, 
And  sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and  hall. 

II 
Where  shall  we  lay  the  man  whom  we  deplore? 
Here,  in  streaming  London's  central  roar. 
Let  the  sound  of  those  he  wrought  for. 
And  the  feet  of  those  he  fought  for, 
Echo  round  his  bones  for  evermore. 

Ill 
Lead  out  the  pageant :  sad  and  slow, 
As  fits  an  universal  woe. 
Let  the  long,  long  procession  go, 
And  let  the  sorrowing  crowd  about  it  grow, 
And  let  the  mournful  martial  music  blow ; 
The  last  great  Englishman  is  low. 

IV 
Mourn,  for  to  us  he  seems  the  last, 
Remembering  all  his  greatness  in  the  Past. 
No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  he  greet 
With  lifted  hand  the  gazer  in  the  street. 
O  friends,  our  chief  state-oracle  is  mute : 
Mourn  for  the  man  of  long-enduring  blood. 
The  statesman-warrior,  moderate,  resolute, 
Whole  in  himself,  a  common  good. 

M 


178  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Mourn  for  the  man  of  amplest  influence, 

Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime, 

Our  greatest  yet  with  least  pretence. 

Great  in  council  and  great  in  war. 

Foremost  captain  of  his  time. 

Rich  in  saving  common-sense. 

And,  as  the  greatest  only  are. 

In  his  simplicity  sublime. 

O  good  gray  head  which  all  men  knew, 

O  voice  from  which  their  omens  all  men  drew, 

O  iron  nerve  to  true  occasion  true, 

O  fall'n  at  length  that  tower  of  strength 

Which  stood  four-square  to  all  the  winds  that  blew ! 

Such  was  he  whom  we  deplore. 

The  long  self-sacrifice  of  life  is  o'er. 

The  great  World-victor's  victor  will  be  seen  no  more. 


All  is  over  and  done  : 
Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 
England,  for  thy  son. 
Let  the  bell  be  toll'd. 
Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 
And  render  him  to  the  mould. 
Under  the  cross  of  gold 
That  shines  over  city  and  river, 
There  he  shall  rest  for  ever 
Among  the  wise  and  the  bold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd : 

And  a  reverent  people  behold 

The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds  : 

Bright  let  it  be  with  its  blazon'd  deeds, 

Dark  in  its  funeral  fold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd : 

And  a  deeper  knell  in  the  heart  be  knoll'd ; 

Thro'  the  dome  of  the  golden  cross ; 

And  the  volleying  cannon  thunder  his  loss ; 


TENNYSON  179 

He  knew  their  voices  of  old. 

For  many  a  time  in  many  a  clime 

His  captain's-ear  has  heard  them  boom, 

Bellowing  victory,  bellowing  doom : 

When  he  with  those  deep  voices  wrought, 

Guarding  realms  and  kings  from  shame ; 

With  those  deep  voices  our  dead  captain  taught 

The  tyrant,  and  asserts  his  claim 

In  that  dread  sound  to  the  great  name, 

Which  he  has  worn  so  pure  of  blame. 

In  praise  and  in  dispraise  the  same, 

A  man  of  well-attemper'd  frame. 

O  civic  muse,  to  such  a  name, 

To  such  a  name  for  ages  long, 

To  such  a  name. 

Preserve  a  broad  approach  of  fame, 

And  ever-echoing  avenues  of  song. 

VI 

Who  is  he  that  cometh,  like  an  honour'd  guest, 

With  banner  and  with  music,  with  soldier  and  with  priest, 

With  a  nation  weeping,  and  breaking  on  my  rest? 

Mighty  Seaman,  this  is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 

Thine  island  loves  thee  well,  thou  famous  man. 

The  greatest  sailor  since  our  world  began. 

Now,  to  the  roll  of  muffled  drums, 

To  thee  the  greatest  soldier  comes ; 

For  this  is  he, 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea ; 

His  foes  were  thine  ;  he  kept  us  free ; 

O  give  him  welcome,  this  is  he 

Worthy  of  our  gorgeous  rites, 

And  worthy  to  be  laid  by  thee ; 

For  this  is  England's  greatest  son. 

He  that  gain'd  a  hundred  fights, 

Nor  ever  lost  an  English  gun  ; 

This  is  he  that  far  away 


i8o  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Against  the  myriads  of  Assaye 

Clash'd  with  his  fiery  few  and  won ; 

And  underneath  another  sun, 

Warring  on  a  later  day, 

Round  affrighted  Lisbon  drew 

The  treble  works,  the  vast  designs 

Of  his  labour'd  rampart-lines. 

Where  he  greatly  stood  at  bay. 

Whence  he  issued  forth  anew, 

And  ever  great  and  greater  grew, 

Beating  from  the  wasted  vines 

Back  to  France  her  banded  swarms, 

Back  to  France  vnth  countless  blows. 

Till  o'er  the  hills  her  eagles  flew 

Beyond  the  Pyranean  pines, 

FoUow'd  up  in  valley  and  glen 

With  blare  of  bugle,  clamour  of  men, 

Roll  of  cannon  and  clash  of  arms, 

And  England  pouring  on  her  foes. 

Such  a  war  had  such  a  close. 

Again  their  ravening  eagle  rose 

In  anger,  wheel'd  on  Europe-shadowing  wings. 

And  barking  for  the  thrones  of  kings ; 

Till  one  that  sought  but  Duty's  iron  crown 

On  that  loud  sabbath  shook  the  spoiler  down ; 

A  day  of  onsets  of  despair ! 

Dash'd  on  every  rocky  square 

Their  surging  charges  foam'd  themselves  away ; 

Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew ; 

Thro'  the  long-tormented  air 

Heaven  flash'd  a  sudden  jubilant  ray, 

And  down  we  swept  and  charged  and  overthrew. 

So  great  a  soldier  taught  us  there, 

What  long-enduring  hearts  could  do 

In  that  world-earthquake,  Waterloo ! 

Mighty  Seaman,  tender  and  true, 

And  pure  as  he  from  taint  of  craven  guile, 

O  saviour  of  the  silver-coasted  isle. 


TENNYSON  i8i 

O  shaker  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile, 

If  aught  of  things  that  here  befall 

Touch  a  spirit  among  things  divine, 

If  love  of  country  move  thee  there  at  all, 

Be  glad,  because  his  bones  are  laid  by  thine ! 

And  thro'  the  centuries  let  a  people's  voice 

In  full  acclaim, 

A  people's  voice, 

The  proof  and  echo  of  all  human  fame, 

A  people's  voice,  when  they  rejoice 

At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 

Attest  their  great  commander's  claim 

With  honour,  honour,  honour,  honour  to  him, 

Eternal  honour  to  his  name. 

VII 
A  people's  voice  !  vre  are  a  people  yet. 
Tho'  all  men  else  their  nobler  dreams  forget, 
Confused  by  brainless  mobs  and  lawless  Powers ; 
Thank  Him  who  isled  us  here,  and  roughly  set 
His  Briton  in  blown  seas  and  storming  showers. 
We  have  a  voice,  with  which  to  pay  the  debt 
Of  boundless  love  and  reverence  and  regret 
To  those  great  men  who  fought,  and  kept  it  ours. 
And  keep  it  ours,  O  God,  from  brute  control ; 
O  Statesmen,  guard  us,  guard  the  eye,  the  soul 
Of  Europe,  keep  our  noble  England  whole. 
And  save  the  one  true  seed  of  freedom  sown 
Betwixt  a  people  and  their  ancient  throne. 
That  sober  freedom  out  of  which  there  springs 
Our  loyal  passion  for  our  temperate  kings ; 
For,  saving  that,  ye  help  to  save  mankind 
Till  public  wrong  be  crumbled  into  dust. 
And  drill  the  raw  world  for  the  march  of  mind, 
Till  crowds  at  length  be  sane  and  crowns  be  just. 
But  wink  no  more  in  slothful  overtrust. 
Remember  him  who  led  your  hosts ; 
He  bad  you  guard  the  sacred  coasts. 


i82  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Your  cannons  moulder  on  the  seaward  wall ; 

His  voice  is  silent  in  your  council-hall 

For  ever ;  and  whatever  tempests  lour 

For  ever  silent ;  even  if  they  broke 

In  thunder,  silent ;  yet  remember  all 

He  spoke  among  you,  and  the  Man  who  spoke; 

Who  never  sold  the  truth  to  serve  the  hour, 

Nor  palter'd  with  Eternal  God  for  power ; 

Who  let  the  turbid  streams  of  rumour  flow 

Thro'  either  babbling  world  of  high  and  low ; 

Whose  life  was  work,  whose  language  rife 

With  rugged  maxims  hewn  from  life ; 

Who  never  spoke  against  a  foe  ; 

Whose  eighty  winters  freeze  with  one  rebuke 

All  great  self-seekers  tramphng  on  the  right : 

Truth-teller  was  our  England's  Alfred  named  ; 

Truth-lover  was  our  English  Duke  ; 

Whatever  record  leap  to  light 

He  never  shall  be  shamed. 

VIII 

Lo,  the  leader  in  these  glorious  wars 
Now  to  glorious  burial  slowly  borne, 
FoUow'd  by  the  brave  of  other  lands, 
He,  on  whom  from  both  her  open  hands 
Lavish  Honour  shower'd  all  her  stars. 
And  affluent  Fortune  emptied  all  her  horn. 
Yea,  let  all  good  things  await 
Him  who  cares  not  to  be  great. 
But  as  he  saves  or  serves  the  state. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island-story. 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory  : 
He  that  walks  it,  only  thirsting 
For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 
Love  of  self,  before  his  journey  closes. 
He  shall  find  the  stubborn  thistle  bursting 
Into  glossy  purples,  which  out-redden 


TENNYSON  183 

All  voluptuous  garden-roses. 

Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island-story, 

The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory : 

Hi,  that  ever  following  her  commands, 

Ot  with  toil  of  heart  and  knees  and  hands, 

Thro'  the  long  gorge  to  the  far  light  has  won 

His  path  upward  and  prevail'd. 

Shall  find  the  toppling  crags  of  Duty  scaled 

Are  close  upon  the  shining  table-lands 

To  which  our  God  Himself  is  moon  and  sun. 

Such  was  he :  his  work  is  done. 

But  while  the  races  of  mankind  endure, 

Let  his  great  example  stand, 

Colossal,  seen  of  every  land. 

And  keep  the  soldier  firm,  the  statesman  pure : 

Till  in  all  lands  and  thro'  all  human  story 

The  path  of  duty  be  the  way  to  glory : 

And  let  the  land  whose  hearths  he  saved  from  shame 

For  many  and  many  an  age  proclaim 

At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 

And  when  the  long  illumined  cities  flame. 

Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader's  fame. 

With  honour,  honour,  honour,  honour  to  him, 

Eternal  honour  to  his  name. 


IX 


Peace,  his  triumph  will  be  sung 

By  some  yet  unmoulded  tongue 

Far  on  in  summers  that  we  shall  not  see : 

Peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one  about  whose  patriarchal  knee 

Late  the  little  children  clung : 

O  peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one,  upon  whose  hand  and  heart  and  brain 

Once  the  weight  and  fate  of  Europe  hung. 

Ours  the  pain,  be  his  the  gain ! 


i84  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

More  than  is  of  man's  degree 

Must  be  with  us,  watching  here 

At  this,  our  great  solemnity. 

Whom  we  see  not  we  revere  ; 

We  revere,  and  we  refrain 

From  talk  of  battles  loud  and  vain, 

And  brawling  memories  all  too  free 

For  such  a  wise  humility 

As  befits  a  solemn  fane  : 

We  revere,  and  while  we  hear 

The  tides  of  Music's  golden  sea 

Setting  toward  eternity. 

Uplifted  high  in  heart  and  hope  are  we, 

Until  we  doubt  not  that  for  one  so  true 

There  must  be  other  nobler  work  to  do 

Than  when  he  fought  at  Waterloo, 

And  Victor  he  must  ever  be. 

For  tho'  the  Giant  Ages  heave  the  hill 

And  break  the  shore,  and  evermore 

Make  and  break,  and  work  their  will  ; 

Tho'  world  on  world  in  myriad  myriads  roll 

Round  us,  each  with  different  powers. 

And  other  forms  of  life  than  ours. 

What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul  ? 

On  God  and  Godlike  men  we  build  our  trust. 

Hush,  the  Dead  March  wails  in  the  people's  ears  : 

The  dark  crowd  moves,  and  there  are  sobs  and  tears : 

The  black  earth  yawns  ;  the  mortal  disappears  ; 

Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust ; 

He  is  gone  who  seem'd  so  great. — 

Gone  ;  but  nothing  can  bereave  him 

Of  the  force  he  made  his  own 

Being  here,  and  we  believe  him 

Something  far  advanced  in  State, 

And  that  he  wears  a  truer  crown 

Than  any  \wreath  that  man  can  v/eave  him. 

Speak  no  more  of  his  renown. 

Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down, 


SCOTT  185 

And  in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him. 
God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him. 

1852.  Alfred,  Lord  Teaaysoa, 

1809—1892, 


NELSON,   PITT,   AND   FOX 

(From  the  Introduction  to  the  first  Canto  of  Marmion. 
Marmion  was  published  on  the  23rd  of  February  1808.) 

November's  sky  is  chill  and  drear, 
November's  leaf  is  red  and  sear : 
Late,  gazing  down  the  steepy  linn 
That  hems  our  little  garden  in, 
Low  in  its  dark  and  narrow^  glen. 
You  scarce  the  rivulet  might  ken, 
So  thick  the  tangled  green-wood  grew, 
So  feeble  trilled  the  streamlet  through : 
Now,  murmuring  hoarse,  and  frequent  seen 
Through  bush  and  brier,  no  longer  green, 
An  angry  brook,  it  sweeps  the  glade. 
Brawls  over  rock  and  wild  cascade. 
And,  foaming  brown  with  doubled  speed. 
Hurries  its  waters  to  the  Tweed. 

No  longer  Autumn's  glowing  red 
Upon  our  forest  hills  is  shed ; 
No  more,  beneath  the  evening  beam, 
Fair  Tweed  reflects  their  purple  gleam  ; 
Away  hath  passed  the  heather-bell 
That  bloomed  so  rich  on  Needpath-fell ; 
Sallow  his  brow,  and  russet  bare 
Are  now  the  sister-heights  of  Yare. 
The  sheep,  before  the  pinching  heaven, 
To  sheltered  dale  and  down  are  driven, 
Where  yet  some  faded  herbage  pines, 
And  yet  a  watery  sunbeam  shines  : 


i86  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

In  meek  despondency  they  eye 
The  withered  sward  and  wintry  sky, 
And  far  beneath  their  summer  hill, 
Stray  sadly  by  Glenkinnon's  rill : 
The  shepherd  shifts  his  mantle's  fold, 
And  wraps  him  closer  from  the  cold ; 
His  dogs  no  merry  circles  wheel, 
But,  shivering,  follow  at  his  heel ; 
A  cowering  glance  they  often  cast. 
As  deeper  moans  the  gathering  blast. 

My  imps,  though  hardy,  bold,  and  wild, 
As  best  befits  the  mountain  child. 
Feel  the  sad  influence  of  the  hour. 
And  wail  the  daisy's  vanished  flower ; 
Their  summer  gambols  tell,  and  mourn, 
And  anxious  ask,— Will  spring  return. 
And  birds  and  lambs  again  be  gay. 
And  blossoms  clothe  the  hawthorn  spray? 

Yes,  prattlers,  yes.     The  daisy's  flower 
Again  shall  paint  your  summer  bower ; 
Again  the  hawthorn  shall  supply 
The  garlands  you  delight  to  tie ; 
The  lambs  upon  the  lea  shall  bound, 
The  wild  birds  carol  to  the  round, 
And  while  you  frolic  light  as  they. 
Too  short  shall  seem  the  summer  day. 

To  mute  and  to  material  things 

New  life  revolving  summer  brings ; 

The  genial  call  dead  Nature  hears. 

And  in  her  glory  reappears. 

But  O  my  Country's  wintry  state 

What  second  spring  shall  renovate? 

What  powerful  call  shall  bid  arise 

The  buried  warlike  and  the  wise ; 

The  mind  that  thought  for  Britain's  weal, 

The  hand  that  grasped  the  victor  steel  ? 


SCOTT  187 

The  vernal  sun  new  life  bestows 

Even  on  the  meanest  flower  that  blows ; 

But  vainly,  vainly  may  he  shine, 

Where  glory  weeps  o'er  Nelson's  shrine ; 

And  vainly  pierce  the  solemn  gloom. 

That  shrouds,  O  Pitt,  thy  hallowed  tomb  I 

Deep  graved  in  every  British  heart, 

O  never  let  those  names  depart ! 

Say  to  your  sons,— Lo,  here  his  grave. 

Who  victor  died  on  Gadite  wave  ; 

To  him,  as  to  the  burning  levin. 

Short,  bright,  resistless  course  was  given. 

Where'er  his  country's  foes  were  found 

Was  heard  the  fated  thunder's  sound, 

Till  burst  the  bolt  on  yonder  shore, 

Rolled,  blazed,  destroyed — and  was  no  more. 

Nor  mourn  ye  less  his  perished  worth. 
Who  bade  the  conqueror  go  forth. 
And  launched  that  thunderbolt  of  war 
On  Egypt,  Hafnia,  Trafalgar ; 
Who,  born  to  guide  such  high  emprise. 
For  Britain's  weal  was  early  wise  ; 
Alas  1  to  whom  the  Almighty  gave. 
For  Britain's  sins,  an  early  grave ! 
His  worth,  who  in  his  mightiest  hour 
A  bauble  held  the  pride  of  power. 
Spurned  at  the  sordid  lust  of  pelf, 
And  served  his  Albion  for  herself; 
Who,  when  the  frantic  crowd  amain 
Strained  at  subjection's  bursting  rein, 
O'er  their  wild  mood  full  conquest  gained, 
The  pride  he  would  not  crush  restrained. 
Showed  their  fierce  zeal  a  worthier  cause. 
And  brought  the  freeman's  arm  to  aid  the  freeman's 
laws. 

Hadst  thou  but  lived,  though  stripped  of  power, 
A  watchman  on  the  lonely  tower, 


i88  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Thy  thrilling  trump  had  roused  the  land, 

When  fraud  or  danger  were  at  hand; 

By  thee,  as  by  the  beacon-light. 

Our  pilots  had  kept  course  aright ; 

As  some  proud  column,  though  alone. 

Thy  strength  had  propped  the  tottering  throne ; 

Now  is  the  stately  column  broke. 

The  beacon-light  is  quenched  in  smoke, 

The  trumpet's  silver  sound  is  still. 

The  warder  silent  on  the  hill! 


O  think,  how  to  his  latest  day, 
When  death,  just  hovering,  claimed  his  prey, 
With  Palinure's  unaltered  mood, 
Firm  at  his  dangerous  post  he  stood  ; 
Each  call  for  needful  rest  repelled. 
With  dying  hand  the  rudder  held. 
Till  in  his  fall  with  fateful  sway, 
The  steerage  of  the  realm  gave  way ! 
Then,  while  on  Britain's  thousand  plains 
One  unpolluted  church  remains, 
Whose  peaceful  bells  ne'er  sent  around 
The  bloody  tocsin's  maddening  sound, 
But  still,  upon  the  hallowed  day, 
Convoke  the  swains  to  praise  and  pray ; 
While  faith  and  civil  peace  are  dear, 
Grace  this  cold  marble  with  a  tear, — 
He,  who  preserved  them,  Pitt,  lies  here ! 

Nor  yet  suppress  the  generous  sigh. 
Because  his  rival  slumbers  nigh  ; 
Nor  be  thy  requiescat  dumb. 
Lest  it  be  said  o'er  Fox's  tomb. 
For  talents  mourn,  untimely  lost, 
When  best  employed,  and  wanted  most ; 
Mourn  genius  high,  and  lore  profound. 
And  wit  that  loved  to  play,  not  wound ; 


SCOTT  189 

And  all  the  reasoning  powers  divine, 
To  penetrate,  resolve,  combine ; 
And  feelings  keen,  and  fancy's  glow, — 
They  sleep  with  him  who  sleeps  below ; 
And,  if  thou  mourn'st  they  could  not  save 
From  error  him  who  owns  this  grave. 
Be  every  harsher  thought  suppressed. 
And  sacred  be  the  last  long  rest. 
Here,  where  the  end  of  earthly  things 
Lays  heroes,  patriots,  bards,  and  kings ; 
Where  stiff  the  hand,  and  still  the  tongue, 
Of  those  who  fought,  and  spoke,  and  sung ; 
Here,  where  the  fretted  aisles  prolong 
The  distant  notes  of  holy  song. 
As  if  some  angel  spoke  agen, 
"All  peace  on  earth,  goodwill  to  men"; 
If  ever  from  an  English  heart, 
O,  here  let  prejudice  depart. 
And,  partial  feeling  cast  aside. 
Record,  that  Fox  a  Briton  died ! 
When  Europe  crouched  to  France's  yoke. 
And  Austria  bent,  and  Prussia  broke. 
And  the  firm  Russian's  purpose  brave 
Was  bartered  by  a  timorous  slave, 
Even  then  dishonour's  peace  he  spurned. 
The  sullied  olive-branch  returned. 
Stood  for  his  country's  glory  fast. 
And  nailed  her  colours  to  the  mast ! 
Heaven,  to  reward  his  firmness,  gave 
A  portion  in  this  honoured  grave. 
And  ne'er  held  marble  in  its  trust 
Of  two  such  wondrous  men  the  dust. 

With  more  than  mortal  powers  endowed, 
How  high  they  soared  above  the  crowd ! 
Theirs  was  no  common  party  race, 
Jostling  by  dark  intrigue  for  place ; 
Like  fabled  Gods,  their  mighty  war 
Shook  realms  and  nations  in  its  jar ; 


190  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Beneath  each  banner  proud  to  stand, 

Looked  up  the  noblest  of  the  land, 

Till  through  the  British  world  were  known 

The  names  of  PITT  and  FOX  alone. 

Spells  of  such  force  no  wizard  grave 

E'er  framed  in  dark  Thessalian  cave. 

Though  his  could  drain  the  ocean  dry, 

And  force  the  planets  from  the  sky. 

These  spells  are  spent,  and  spent  with  these 

The  wine  of  life  is  on  the  lees. 

Genius,  and  taste,  and  talent  gone, 

For  ever  tombed  beneath  the  stone. 

Where,— taming  thought  to  human  pride  !— 

The  mighty  chiefs  sleep  side  by  side. 

Drop  upon  Fox's  grave  the  tear, 

'Twill  trickle  to  his  rival's  bier ; 

O'er  Pitt's  the  mournful  requiem  sound, 

And  Fox's  shall  the  notes  rebound. 

The  solemn  echo  seems  to  cry, — 

"  Here  let  their  discord  with  them  die. 

Speak  not  for  those  a  separate  doom, 

Whom  Fate  made   Brothers  in  the  tomb  ; 

But  search  the  land  of  living  men. 

Where  wilt  thou  find  their  like  agen?" 

Walter  Scott, 
1771-1832. 

MEMORIAL  VERSES 

{April  1850,) 

[From  *'  Etnpedocles  on  Etfia,  aiid  other  Poems.     By  A. 

London:  B.  Fcllowcs^  1S52."] 

Goethe  in  Weimar  sleeps,  and  Greece, 
Long  since,  saw  Byron's  struggle  cease. 
But  one  such  death  remained  to  come — 
The  last  poetic  voice  is  dumb — 
We  stand  to-day  by  Wordsworth's  tomb. 


ARNOLD  191 

When  Byron's  eyes  were  shut  in  death, 
We  bowed  our  head  and  held  our  breath. 
He  taught  us  little ;  but  our  soul 
Had  felt  him  like  the  thunder's  roll. 
With  shivering  heart  the  strife  we  saw 
Of  passion  with  eternal  law  ; 
And  yet  with  reverential  awe 
We  watched  the  fount  of  fiery  life 
Which  served  for  that  Titanic  strife. 

When  Goethe's  death  was  told,  we  said : 

Sunk,  then,  is  Europe's  sagest  head. 

Physician  of  the  iron  age, 

Goethe  has  done  his  pilgrimage. 

He  took  the  suffering  human  race, 

He  read  each  wound,  each  weakness  clear ; 

And  struck  his  finger  on  the  place, 

And  said:   Thou   ailest  here,   and  here! 

He  looked  on  Europe's  dying  hour 

Of  fitful  dream  and  feverish  power  ; 

His  eye  plunged  down  the  weltering  strife, 

The  turmoil  of  expiring  life — 

He  said:   The   end  is   everywhere, 

Art  still  has    truth,    take  refuge   there! 

And  he  was  happy,  if  to  know 

Causes  of  things,  and  far  below 

His  feet  to  see  the  lurid  flow 

Of  terror  and  insane  distress, 

And  headlong  fate,  be  happiness. 

And  Wordsworth  ! — Ah,  pale  ghosts,  rejoice ! 
For  never  has  such  soothing  voice 
Been  to  your  shadowy  world  conveyed, 
Since  erst,  at  morn,  some  wandering  shade 
Heard  the  clear  song  of  Orpheus  come 
Through  Hades,  and  the  mournful  gloom. 
Wordsworth  has  gone  from  us — and  ye, 
Ah,  may  ye  feel  his  voice  as  we ! 


192  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

He  too  upon  a  wintry  clime 
Had  fallen— on  this  iron  time 
Of  doubts,  disputes,  distractions,  fears. 
He  found  us  when  the  age  had  bound 
Our  souls  in  its  benumbing  round  ; 
He  spoke,  and  loosed  our  heart  in  tears. 
He  laid  us  as  we  lay  at  birth 
On  the  cool  flowery  lap  of  earth, 
Smiles  broke  from  us  and  we  had  ease ; 
The  hills  were  round  us,  and  the  breeze 
Went  o'er  the  sun-lit  fields  again  ; 
Our  foreheads  felt  the  wind  and  rain. 
Our  youth  returned  ;   for  there  was  shed 
On  spirits  that  had  long  been  dead, 
Spirits  dried  up  and  closely  furled. 
The  freshness  of  the  early  world. 

Ah  !  since  dark  days  still  bring  to  light 
Man's  prudence  and  man's  fiery  might, 
Time  may  restore  us  in  his  course 
Goethe's  sage  mind  and  Byron's  force  ; 
But  where  will  Europe's  latter  hour 
Again  find  Wordsworth's  healing  power? 
Others  will  teach  us  how  to  dare, 
And  against  fear  our  breast  to  steel ; 
Others  will  strengthen  us  to  bear- 
But  who,  ah  I   who,  will  make  us  feel  ? 
The  cloud  of  mortal  destiny, 
Others  will  front  it  fearlessly— 
But  who,  like  him,  will  put  it  by  ? 

Keep  fresh  the  grass  upon  his  grave 
O  Rotha,  with  thy  living  wave ! 
Sing  him  thy  best !  for  few  or  none 
Hears  thy  voice  right,  now  he  is  gone. 

Matthew  Arnold, 
1822—1888, 


WATSON  193 

LACHRYMAE  MUSARUM 

['■'■  Lachryinae  Musanini  and  other  Poems,  1S93."] 

(6fi2  October  1892,) 

Low,  like  another's,  lies  the  laurelled  head : 
The  life  that  seemed  a  perfect  song  is  o'er : 
Carry  the  last  great  bard  to  his  last  bed. 
Land  that  he  loved,  thy  noblest  voice  is  mute. 
Land  that  he  loved,  that  loved  him  !  nevermore 
Meadow  of  thine,  smooth  lawn  or  wild  sea-shore. 
Gardens  of  odorous  bloom  and  tremulous  fruit, 
Or  woodlands  old,  like  Druid  couches  spread. 
The  master's  feet  shall  tread. 
Death's  little  rift  hath  rent  the  faultless  lute : 
The  singer  of  undying  songs  is  dead. 

Lo,  in  this  season  pensive-hued  and  grave. 

While  fades  and  falls  the  doomed,  reluctant  leaf 

From  withered  Earth's  fantastic  coronal. 

With  wandering  sighs  of  forest  and  of  wave 

Mingles  the  murmur  of  a  people's  grief 

For  him  whose  leaf  shall  fade  not,  neither  fall. 

He  hath  fared  forth,  beyond  these  suns  and  showers. 

For  us,  the  autumn  glow,  the  autumn  flame. 

And  soon  the  winter  silence  shall  be  ours : 

Him  the  eternal  spring  of  fadeless  fame 

Crowns  with  no  mortal  flowers. 

What  needs  his  laurel  our  ephemeral  tears. 

To  save  from  visitation  of  decay? 

Not  in  this  temporal  light  alone,  that  bay 

Blooms,  nor  to  perishable  mundane  ears 

Sings  he  with  lips  of  transitory  clay. 

Rapt  though  he  be  from  us, 

Virgil  salutes  him,  and  Theocritus ; 

Catullus,  mightiest-brained  Lucretius,  each 

Greets  him,  their  brother,  on  the  Stygian  beach ; 

Proudly  a  gaunt  right  hand  doth  Dante  reach ; 


194  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Milton  and  Wordsworth  bid  him  welcome  home ; 

Keats,  on  his  Hps  the  eternal  rose  of  youth, 

Doth  in  the  name  of  Beauty  that  is  Truth 

A  kinsman's  love  beseech  ; 

Coleridge,  his  locks  aspersed  with  fairy  foam, 

Calm  Spenser,  Chaucer  suave. 

His  equal  friendship  crave : 

And  godlike  spirits  hail  him  guest,  in  speech 

Of  Athens,  Florence,  Weimar,  Stratford,  Rome. 

He  hath  returned  to  regions  whence  he  came. 

Him  doth  the  spirit  divine 

Of  universal  loveliness  reclaim. 

All  nature  is  his  shrine. 

Seek  him  henceforward  in  the  wind  and  sea, 

In  earth's  and  air's  emotion  or  repose. 

In  every  star's  august  serenity. 

And  in  the  rapture  of  the  flaming  rose. 

There  seek  him  if  ye  would  not  seek  in  vain. 

There,  in  the  rhythm  and  music  of  the  Whole  ; 

Yea,  and  for  ever  in  the  human  soul 

Made  stronger  and  more  beauteous  by  his  strain. 

For  lo  !  creation's  self  is  one  great  choir. 

And  what  is  nature's  order  but  the  rhyme 

Whereto  in  holiest  unanimity, 

All  things  with  all  things  move  unfalteringly. 

Infolded  and  communal  from  their  prime? 

Who  shall  expound  the  mystery  of  the  lyre  ? 

In  far  retreats  of  elemental  mind 

Obscurely  comes  and  goes 

The  imperative  breath  of  song,  that  as  the  wind 

Is  trackless,  and  oblivious  whence  it  blows. 

Demand  of  lilies  wherefore  they  are  white. 

Extort  her  crimson  secret  from  the  rose. 

But  ask  not  of  the  Muse  that  she  disclose 

The  meaning  of  the  riddle  of  her  might : 

Somewhat  of  all  things  sealed  and  recondite, 


WATSON  195 

Save  the  enigma  of  herself,  she  knows. 
The  master  could  not  tell,  with  all  his  lore, 
Wherefore  he  sang,  or  whence  the  mandate  sped : 
Ev'n  as  the  linnet  sings,  so  I,  he  said  ;— 
Ah,  rather  as  the  imperial  nightingale. 
That  held  in  trance  the  ancient  Attic  shore. 
And  charms  the  ages  with  the  notes  that  o'er 
All  woodland  chants  immortally  prevail! 
And  now,  from  our  vain  plaudits  greatly  fled, 
He  with  diviner  silence  dwells  instead, 
And  on  no  earthly  sea  with  transient  roar, 
Unto  no  earthly  airs,  he  trims  his  sail. 
But  far  beyond  our  vision  and  our  hail 
Is  heard  for  ever  and  is  seen  no  more. 

No  more,  O  never  now. 

Lord  of  the  lofty  and  the  tranquil  brow 

Whereon  nor  snows  of  time 

Have  fall'n,  nor  vnntry  rime. 

Shall  men  behold  thee,  sage  and  mage  sublime. 

Once,  in  his  youth  obscure. 

The  maker  of  this  verse,  which  shall  endure 

By  splendour  of  its  theme  that  cannot  die. 

Beheld  thee  eye  to  eye, 

And  touched  through  thee  the  hand 

Of  every  hero  of  thy  race  divine, 

Ev'n  to  the  sire  of  all  the  laurelled  line. 

The  sightless  wanderer  on  the  Ionian  strand. 

With  soul  as  healthful  as  the  poignant  brine. 

Wide  as  his  skies,  and  radiant  as  his  seas. 

Starry  from  haunts  of  his  Familiars  nine, 

Glorious  Mseonides. 

Yea,  I  beheld  thee,  and  behold  thee  yet : 

Thou  hast  forgotten,  but  can  I  forget? 

The  accents  of  thy  pure  and  sovereign  tongue. 

Are  they  not  ever  goldenly  impressed 

On  memory's  palimpsest? 

I  see  the  wizard  locks  like  night  that  hung, 


196  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

I  tread  the  floor  thy  hallowing  feet  have  trod ; 
I  see  the  hands  a  nation's  lyre  that  strung, 
The  eyes  that  looked  through  life  and  gazed  on  God. 
The  seasons  change,  the  winds  they  shift  and  veer ; 
The  grass  of  yesteryear 

Is  dead ;  the  birds  depart,  the  groves  decay  : 
Empires  dissolve  and  peoples  disappear : 
Song  passes  not  away. 
Captains  and  conquerors  leave  a  little  dust, 
And  kings  a  dubious  legend  of  their  reign  ; 
The  swords  of  Caesars,  they  are  less  than  rust : 
The  poet  doth  remain. 
Dead  is  Augustus,  Maro  is  alive  ; 
And  thou,  the  Mantuan  of  our  age  and  clime. 
Like  Virgil  shalt  thy  race  and  tongue  survive. 
Bequeathing  no  less  honeyed  words  to  time. 
Embalmed  in  amber  of  eternal  rhyme. 
And  rich  with  sweets  from  every  Muse's  hive; 
While  to  the  measure  of  the  cosmic  rune 
For  purer  ears  thou  shalt  thy  lyre  attune, 
And  heed  no  more  the  hum  of  idle  praise 
In  that  great  calm  our  tumults  cannot  reach, 
Master  who  crown'st  our  imraelodious  days 
With  flower  of  perfect  speech. 

William  Watsoa. 


THE   LAST  WALK   FROM   BOAR'S   HILL 
To  A.  C.  S. 

["  The  Coming  of  Love,  and  other  Poems ,  1898."] 
I 

One  after  one  they  go ;  and  glade  and  heath, 
Where  once  we  walked  with  them,  and  garden-bowers 
They  made  so  dear,  are  haunted  by  the  hours 

Once  musical  of  those  who  sleep  beneath  ; 

One  after  one  does  Sorrow's  every  wreath 


WATTS-DUNTON  197 

Bind  closer  you  and  me  with  funeral  flowers, 

And  Love  and  Memory  from  each  loss  of  ours 
Forge  conquering  glaives  to  quell  the  conqueror  Death. 
Since  Love  and  Memory  now  refuse  to  yield 
The  friend  with  whom  we  walk  through  mead  and  field 

To-day  as  on  that  day  when  last  we  parted, 
Can  he  be  dead,  indeed,  whatever  seem  ? 
Love  shapes  a  presence  out  of  Memory's  dream, 

A  living  presence,  Jowett  golden-hearted. 


II 


Can  he  be  dead  ?  we  walk  through  flowery  ways 
From  Boar's  Hill  down  to  Oxford,  fain  to  know 
What  nugget  gold,  in  drift  of  Time's  long  flow. 

The  Bodleian  mine  hath  stored  from  richer  days ; 

He,  fresh  as  on  that  morn,  vdth  sparkling  gaze, 
Hair  bright  as  sunshine,  white  as  moonlit  snow, 
Still  talks  of  Plato  while  the  scene  below, 

Breaks  gleaming  through  the  veil  of  sunlit  haze. 

Can  he  be  dead?    He  shares  our  homeward  walk, 
And  by  the  river  you  arrest  the  talk 

To  see  the  sun  transfigure  ere  he  sets 
The  boatmen's  children  shining  in  the  wherry 

And  on  the  floating  bridge  the  ply-rope  wets, 
Making  the  clumsy  craft  an  angel's  ferry. 


Ill 


The  river  crossed,  we  walk  'neath  glowing  skies 
Through  grass  where  cattle  feed  or  stand  and  stare 
With  burnished  coats,  glassing  the  coloured  air — 
Fading  as  colour  after  colour  dies : 
We  pass  the  copse ;  we  round  the  leafy  rise — 
Start  many  a  coney  and  partridge,  hern  and  hare  ; 


198  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

We  win  the  scholar's  nest— his  simple  fare 
Made  royal-rich  by  welcome  in  his  eyes. 
Can  he  be  dead?    His  heart  was  drawn  to  you. 
Ah !  well  that  kindred  heart  within  him  knew 

The  poet's  heart  of  gold  that  gives  the  spell ! 
Can  he  be  dead  ?    Your  heart  being  drawn  to  him, 
How  shall  ev'n  Death  make  that  dear  presence  dim 
For  you  who  loved  him— us  who  loved  him  well? 

Theodore  WaiH^Duatoa. 

¥ 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

An  Elegy 

["Robot    Louis    Stevenson:    An    Elegy,    and    other    Poems, 

mainly  Personal.     1895."] 

High  on  his  Patmos  of  the  Southern  Seas 

Our  northern  dreamer  sleeps, 

Strange  stars  above  him,  and  above  his  grave 

Strange  leaves  and  wings  their  tropic  splendours  wave, 

While,  far  beneath,  mile  after  shimmering  mile, 

The  great  Pacific,  with  its  faery  deeps. 

Smiles  all  day  long  its  silken  secret  smile. 

Son  of  a  race  nomadic,  finding  still 

Its  home  in  regions  farthest  from  its  home, 

Ranging  untired  the  borders  of  the  world, 

And  resting  but  to  roam  ; 

Loved  of  his  land,  and  making  all  his  boast 

The  birthright  of  the  blood  from  which  he  came, 

Heir  to  those  lights  that  guard  the  Scottish  coast, 

And  caring  only  for  a  filial  fame ; 

Proud,  if  a  poet,  he  was  Scotsman  most, 

And  bore  a  Scottish  name. 

Death,  that  long  sought  our  poet,  finds  at  last, 
Death,  that  pursued  him  over  land  and  sea  : 
Not  his  the  flight  of  fear,  the  heart  aghast 
With  stony  dread  of  immortality. 


LE  GALLIENNE  199 

He  fled  "not  cowardly"; 
Fled,  as  some  captain,  in  whose  shaping  hand 
Lie  the  momentous  fortunes  of  his  land, 
Sheds  not  vainglorious  blood  upon  the  field, 
But  dares  to  fly — yea!  even  dares  to  yield. 
Death !  why  at  last  he  finds  his  treasure  isle. 
And  he  the  pirate  of  its  hidden  hoard  ; 
Life !  'twas  the  ship  he  sailed  to  seek  it  in. 
And  Death  is  but  the  pilot  come  aboard. 
Methinks  I  see  him  smile  a  boy's  glad  smile 
On  maddened  winds  and  waters,  reefs  unknown. 
As  thunders  in  the  sail  the  dread  typhoon, 
And  in  the  surf  the  shuddering  timbers  groan ; 
Horror  ahead,  and  Death  beside  the  wheel : 
Then — spreading  stillness  of  the  broad  lagoon. 
And  lap  of  waters  round  the  resting  keel. 

Strange  Isle  of  Voices !  must  we  ask  in  vain, 

In  vain  beseech  and  win  no  answering  vsrord. 

Save  mocking  echoes  of  our  lonely  pain 

From  lonely  hill  and  bird? 

Island  beneath  whose  unrelenting  coast. 

As  though  it  never  in  the  sun  had  been. 

The  whole  world's  treasure  lieth  sunk  and  lost. 

Unsunned,  unseen. 

For,  either  sunk  beyond  the  diver's  skill. 

There,  fathoms  deep,  our  gold  is  all  arust. 

Or  in  that  island  it  is  hoarded  still. 

Yea,  some  have  said,  within  thy  dreadful  wall 

There  is  a  folk  that  know  not  death  at  all. 

The  loved  we  lost,  the  lost  we  love,  are  there. 

Will  no  kind  voice  make  answer  to  our  cry. 

Give  to  our  aching  hearts  some  little  trust. 

Show  how  'tis  good  to  live,  but  best  to  die? 

Some  voice  that  knows 

Whither  the  dead  man  goes : 

We  hear  his  music  from  the  other  side. 

Maybe  a  little  tapping  on  the  door. 


200  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

A  something  called,  a  something  sighed— 

No  more. 

O  for  some  voice  to  valiantly  declare 

The  best  news  true ! 

Then,  Happy  Island  of  the  Happy  Dead, 

Hov7  gladly  would  we  spread 

Impatient  sail  for  you ! 

O  vanished  loveliness  of  flowers  and  faces, 

Treasure  of  hair,  and  great  immortal  eyes, 

Are  there  for  these  no  safe  and  secret  places? 

And  is  it  true  that  beauty  never  dies? 

Soldiers  and  saints,  haughty  and  lovely  names. 

Women  who  set  the  whole  wide  world  in  flames. 

Poets  who  sang  their  passion  to  the  skies, 

And  lovers  wild  and  wise : 

Fought  they  and  prayed  for  some  poor  flitting  gleam, 

Was  all  they  loved  and  worshipped  but  a  dream? 

Is  Love  a  lie  and  fame  indeed  a  breath, 

And  is  there  no  sure  thing  in  life — but  death? 

Or  may  it  be,  within  that  guarded  shore, 

He  meets  Her  now  whom  I  shall  meet  no  more 

Till  kind  Death  fold  me  'neath  his  shadowy  vmg  : 

She  whom  within  my  heart  I  softly  tell 

That  he  is  dead  whom  once  we  loved  so  well. 

He,  the  immortal  master  whom  I  sing. 

Immortal !  yea,  dare  we  the  word  again. 

If  aught  remaineth  of  our  mortal  day, 

That  which  is  written— shall  it  not  remain? 

That  which  is  sung,  is  it  not  built  for  aye? 

Faces  must  fade,  for  all  their  golden  looks. 

Unless  some  poet  them  eternalise. 

Make  live  those  golden  looks  in  golden  books; 

Death,  soon  or  late,  will  quench  the  brightest  eyes— 

'Tis  only  what  is  written  never  dies. 

Yea,  memories  that  guard  like  sacred  gold 

Some  sainted  face,  they  also  must  grow  old, 


LE  GALLIENNE  201 

Pass  and  forget,  and  think — or  darest  thou  not  I — 
On  all  the  beauty  that  is  quite  forgot. 

Strange  craft  of  words,  strange  magic  of  the  pen. 

Whereby  the  dead  still  talk  with  living  men ; 

Whereby  a  sentence,  in  its  trivial  scope. 

May  centre  all  we  love  and  all  we  hope ; 

And  in  a  couplet,  like  a  rosebud  furled, 

Lie  all  the  wistful  wonder  of  the  world. 

Old  are  the  stars,  and  yet  they  still  endure. 

Old  are  the  flowers,  yet  never  fail  the  spring : 

Why  is  the  song  that  is  so  old  so  new, 

Known  and  yet  strange  each  sweet  small  shape  and  hue  ? 

How  may  a  poet  thus  for  ever  sing. 

Thus  build  his  climbing  music  sweet  and  sure, 

As  builds  in  stars  and  flowers  the  Eternal  mind  ? 

Ah,   Poet,  that  is  yours  to  seek  and  find  I 

Yea,  yours  that  magisterial  skill  whereby 

God  put  all  Heaven  in  a  woman's  eye. 

Nature's  own  mighty  and  mysterious  art 

That  knows  to  pack  the  whole  within  the  part : 

The  shell  that  hums  the  music  of  the  sea. 

The  little  word  big  with  Eternity, 

The  cosmic  rhythm  in  microcosmic  things — 

One  song  the  lark  and  one  the  planet  sings. 

One  kind  heart  beating  warm  in  bird  and  tree — 

To  hear  it  beat,  who  knew  so  well  as  he? 

Virgil  of  prose !  far  distant  is  the  day 
When  at  the  mention  of  your  heartfelt  name 
Shall  shake  the  head,  and  men,  oblivious,  say  : 
"We  know  him  not,  this  master,  nor  his  fame." 
Not  for  so  swift  forgetfulness  you  wrought. 
Day  upon  day,  with  rapt  fastidious  pen, 
Turning,  like  precious  stones,  with  anxious  thought. 
This  word  and  that  again  and  yet  again. 
Seeking  to  match  its  meaning  with  the  world ; 


202  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Nor  to  the  morning  stars  gave  ears  attent, 
That  you,  indeed,  might  ever  dare  to  be 
With  other  praise  than  immortality 
Unworthily  content. 

Not  while  a  boy  still  whistles  on  the  earth, 

Not  while  a  single  human  heart  beats  true. 

Not  while  Love  lasts  and  Honour,  and  the  Brave, 

Has  earth  a  grave, 

O  well-beloved,  for  you! 

Richard  Le  Gallienne, 


TO  THE  BELOVED  DEAD 

A  Lament 

\First  printed  in '■^  Preludes.     By  A.  C.  Thompson.     1875."] 

Beloved,  thou  art  like  a  tune  that  idle  fingers 

Play  on  a  window-pane. 
The  time  is  there,  the  form  of  music  lingers ; 

But  O  thou  sweetest  strain. 
Where  is  thy  soul?    Thou  liest  i'  the  wind  and  rain. 

Even  as  to  him  who  plays  that  idle  air. 

It  seems  a  melody, 
For  his  own  soul  is  full  of  it,  so,  my  Fair, 

Dead,  thou  dost  live  in  me. 
And  all  this  lonely  soul  is  full  of  thee. 

Thou  song  of  songs ! — not  music  as  before 

Unto  the  outward  ear ; 
My  spirit  sings  thee  inly  evermore. 

Thy  falls  with  tear  on  tear. 
I  fail  for  thee,  thou  art  too  sweet,  too  dear. 


ARNOLD  203 

Thou  silent  song,  thou  ever  voiceless  rhyme, 
Is  there  no  pulse  to  move  thee 

At  windy  dawn,  with  a  wild  heart  beating  time, 
And  falling  tears  above  thee, 

0  music  stifled  from  the  ears  that  love  thee? 

Oh,  for  a  strain  of  thee  from  outer  air  ! 

Soul  wearies  soul,  I  find. 
Of  thee,  thee,  thee,  I  am  mournfully  aware, 

— Contained  in  one  poor  mind 
Who  wert  in  tune  and  time  to  every  wind. 

Poor  grave,  poor  lost  beloved  I  but  I  burn 

For  some  more  vast  To  be. 
As  he  that  played  that  secret  tune  may  turn 

And  strike  it  on  a  lyre  triumphantly, 

1  wait  some  future,  all  a  lyre  for  thee. 

Alice  MeynelL 

GEIST'S  GRAVE 

\_First printedin  the  Fortnightly  Review,  Jan.  iSSi.  ] 

Four  years ! — and  didst  thou  stay  above 
The  ground,  which  hides  thee  now,  but  four? 
And  all  that  life,  and  ail  that  love, 
Were  crowded,  GeistI  into  no  more? 

Only  four  years  those  winning  ways. 
Which  make  me  for  thy  presence  yearn, 
Call'd  us  to  pet  thee  or  to  praise, 
Dear  little  friend  1  at  every  turn  ? 

That  loving  heart,  that  patient  soul, 
Had  they  indeed  no  longer  span, 
To  run  their  course,  and  reach  their  goal, 
And  read  their  homily  to  man  ? 


204  ENGLISH  ELEGIES 

That  liquid,  melancholy  eye, 
From  whose  pathetic,  soul-fed  springs 
Seem'd  surging  the  Virgilian  cry,* 
The  sense  of  tears  in  mortal  things — 

That  steadfast,  mournful  strain,  consoled 

By  spirits  gloriously  gay. 

And  temper  of  heroic  mould — 

What,  was  four  years  their  whole  short  day? 

Yes,  only  four ! — and  not  the  course 
Of  all  the  centuries  yet  to  come, 
And  not  the  infinite  resource 
Of  Nature,  with  her  countless  sum 

Of  figures,  with  her  fulness  vast 
Of  new  creation  evermore. 
Can  ever  quite  repeat  the  past. 
Or  just  thy  little  self  restore. 

Stern  law  of  every  mortal  lot ! 
Which  man,  proud  man,  finds  hard  to  bear, 
And  builds  himself  I  know  not  what 
Of  second  life  I  know  not  where. 

But  thou,  when  struck  thine  hour  to  go. 
On  us,  who  stood  despondent  by, 
A  meek  last  glance  of  love  didst  throw. 
And  humbly  lay  thee  down  to  die. 

Yet  would  we  keep  thee  in  our  heart — 
Would  fix  our  favourite  on  the  scene, 
Nor  let  thee  utterly  depart 
And  be  as  if  thou  ne'er  hadst  been. 

And  so  there  rise  these  lines  of  verse 
On  lips  that  rarely  form  them  now ; 
While  to  each  other  we  rehearse : 
Such  ways,  such  arts,  such  looks  hadst  tboul 


Sunt  lacrimae  rerum  ! 


ARNOLD  205 

We  stroke  thy  broad  brown  paws  again, 
We  bid  thee  to  thy  vacant  chair, 
We  greet  thee  by  the  window-pane. 
We  hear  thy  scuffle  on  the  stair. 

We  see  the  flaps  of  thy  large  ears 
Quick  raised  to  ask  which  way  we  go  ; 
Crossing  the  frozen  lake,  appears 
Thy  small  black  figure  on  the  snow ! 

Nor  to  us  only  art  thou  dear 
Who  mourn  thee  in  thine  English  home ; 
Thou  hast  thine  absent  master's  tear, 
Dropt  by  the  far  Australian  foam. 

Thy  memory  lasts  both  here  and  there. 
And  thou  shalt  live  as  long  as  we. 
And  after  that— thou  dost  not  care ! 
In  us  was  all  the  world  to  thee. 

Yet,  fondly  zealous  for  thy  fame. 
Even  to  a  date  beyond  our  own 
We  strive  to  carry  down  thy  name, 
By  mounded  turf,  and  graven  stone. 

We  lay  thee,  close  within  our  reach. 
Here,  where  the  grass  is  smooth  and  warm. 
Between  the  holly  and  the  beech, 
Where  oft  we  watch'd  thy  couchant  form. 

Asleep,  yet  lending  half  an  ear 
To  travellers  on  the  Portsmouth  road  ;— 
There  build  we  thee,  O  guardian  dear, 
Mark'd  with  a  stone,  thy  last  abode ! 

Then  some,  who  through  this  garden  pass, 
When  we  too,  like  thyself,  are  clay, 
Shall  see  thy  grave  upon  the  grass, 
And  stop  before  the  stone,  and  say  : 


2o6  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

People  who  lived  here  long  ago 

Did  by  this  stone,  it  seems,  intend 

To  name  for  future  times  to  know 

The  dachs-'hound,  Geist,  their  little  friend. 

Matthew  Arnold, 
1822—1888. 
¥ 

ON  A  DEAD  CHILD 

[From  "  T/ie  Shorter  Poems  of  Robert  Bridges.     1890."] 

Perfect  little  body,  without  fault  or  stain  on  thee, 
With  promise  of  strength  and  manhood  full  and  fair  1 
Though  cold  and  stark  and  bare, 
The  bloom  and  the  charm  of  life  doth  awhile  remain  on 
thee. 

Thy  mother's  treasure  wert  thou  ;— alas !  no  longer 
To  visit  her  heart  with  wondrous  joy :  to  be 
Thy  father's  pride  ;— ah,  he 
Must  gather  his  faith  together,  and  his  strength  make 
stronger. 

To  me,  as  I  move  thee  now  in  the  last  duty. 
Dost  thou  with  a  turn  or  gesture  anon  respond  : 
Startling  my  fancy  fond 
With  a  chance  attitude  of  the  head,  a  freak  of  beauty. 

Thy  hand  clasps,  as  'twas  wont,  my  finger,  and  holds  it : 
But   the  grasp   is  the  clasp  of  Death,  heartbreaking 
and  stiff; 

Yet  feels  to  my  hand  as  if 
'Twas  still  thy  will,  thy  pleasure  and  trust  that  enfolds  it. 

So  I  lay  thee  there,  thy  sunken  eyelids  closing,— 
Go  lie  thou  there  in  thy  coffin,  thy  last  little  bed  !— 
Propping  thy  wise,  sad  head. 
Thy  firm,  pale  hands  across  thy  chest  disposing. 


WATTS-DUNTON  207 

So  quiet !  doth  the  change  content  thee  ?— Death,  whither 
hath  he  taken  thee  ? 
To  a  world,   do   I  think,   that  rights  the  disaster  of 
this? 

The  vision  of  which  I  miss, 
Who  weep  for  the  body,   and  wish  but  to  warm  thee 
and  awaken  thee? 

Ah !  Httle  at  best  can  all  our  hopes  avail  us 
To  lift  this  sorrow,  or  cheer  us,  when  in  the  dark. 
Unwilling,  alone  we  embark, 
And  the  things  we  have  seen  and  have  known  and  have 
heard  of,  fail  us. 

Robert  Bridges, 

IN    A    GRAVEYARD 

Oliver  Madox  Brown 
November  12,  1874 

["  Tke  Coming  of  Love,  and  other  Poems.     1898."] 

Farewell  to  thee,  and  to  our  dreams  farewell- 
Dreams  of  high  deeds  and  golden  days  of  thine. 
Where  once  again  should  Art's  twin  powers  combine — 

The  painter's  wizard-wand,  the  poet's  spell ! 

Though  death  strikes  free,  careless  of  Heaven  and  Hell — 
Careless  of  Man,  of  Love's  most  lovely  shrine  ; 
Yet  must  Man  speak— must  ask  of  Heaven  a  sign 

That  this  wild  world  is  God's,  and  all  is  well. 

Last  night  we  mourned  thee,  cursing  eyeless  Death, 

Who,  sparing  sons  of  Baal  and  Ashtoreth, 

Must  needs  slay  thee,  with  all  the  world  to  slay  ; 
But  round  this  grave  the  winds  of  winter  say : 

"On  earth  what  hath  the  poet?    An  alien  breath. 

Night  holds  the  keys  that  ope  the  doors  of  Day." 

Theodore  Watts-'Duntoa, 


2o8  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

LIGHT:  AN  EPICEDE 

To  Philip  Bourke  Marston 

["  Astrophel,  and  other  poetns.     By  Algernon  Charles 

Swmburne."     1894.] 

Love  will  not  weep  because  the  seal  is  broken 

That  sealed  upon  a  life  beloved  and  brief 
Darkness,  and  let  but  song  break  through  for  token 
How  deep,  too  far  for  even  thy  song's  relief, 
Slept  in  thy  soul  the  secret  springs  of  grief. 
Thy  song  may  soothe  full  many  a  soul  hereafter. 

As  tears,  if  tears  vrill  come,  dissolve  despair  ; 
As  here  but  late,  with  smile  more  bright  than  laughter, 
Thy  sweet  strange  yearning  eyes  would  seem  to  bear 
Witness  that  joy  might  cleave  the  clouds  of  care. 

Two  days  agone,  and  love  was  one  vdth  pity 
When  love  gave  thought  wings  toward  the  glimmer- 
ing goal 

Where,  as  a  shrine  lit  in  some  darkling  city, 
Shone  soft  the  shrouded  image  of  thy  soul : 
And  now  thou    art  healed   of  life ;  thou    art    healed, 
and  whole. 

Yea,  two  days  since,  all  we  that  loved  thee  pitied : 
And  now  with  wondering  love,  with  shame  of  face. 

We  think  how  foolish  now,  how  far  unfitted, 
Should  be  from  us,  toward  thee  who  hast  run  thy  race, 
Pity— toward  thee,  who  hast  won  the  painless  place; 

The  painless  world  of  death,  yet  unbeholden 

Of  eyes  that  dream  what  light  now  lightens  thine 

And  will  not  weep.     Thought,  yearning  toward  those 
olden 
Dear  hours  that  sorrow  sees  and  sees  not  shine, 
Bows  tearless  down  before  a  fliameless  shrine: 

A  flameless  altar  here  of  life  and  sorrow 
Quenched  and  consumed  together.     These  were  one. 

One  thing  for  thee,  as  night  was  one  with  morrow 
And  utter  darkness  with  the  sovereign  sun : 
And  now  thou  seest  life,  sorrow,  and  darkness  done. 


SWINBURNE  209 

And  yet  love  yearns  again  to  win  thee  hither ; 
Blind  love,  and  loveless,  and  unworthy  thee : 

Here  where  I  watch  the  hours  of  darkness  wither 
Here  where  mine  eyes  were  glad  and  sad  to  see 
Thine  that  could  see  not  mine,  though  turned  on  me. 

But  now,  if  aught  beyond  sweet  sleep  lie  hidden, 
And  sleep  be  sealed  not  fast  on  dead  men's  sight 

For  ever,  thine  hath  grace  for  ours  forbidden. 
And  sees  us  compassed  round  with  change  and  night: 
Yet  light  like  thine  is  ours,  if  love  be  light. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 


AVE  ATQUE  VALE 

In  Memory  of  Charles  Baudelaire 

["  Poems  mid  Ballads.     Second  Series.     By  Algernon  Charles 
Swinbunte.     1878."] 

Nous  devrions  pozirtant  lui  porter  quelques  Jleurs  ; 
Les  marts,  les  pauvres  marts,  out  de  grandes  douleurs, 
Et  quand  Octobre  sotiffle,  imondeur  des  vieux  arbres, 
San  vent  mtiancolique  a  Ventoiir  de  leurs  ?Tiarbres, 
Certe,  Us  doivent  trouver  les  vivants  bien  ingrats. 

— ^^  Les  Fleurs  du  Mai." 


I 

Shall  I  strew  on  thee  rose  or  rue  or  laurel. 
Brother,  on  this  that  was  the  veil  of  thee  "i 
Or  quiet  sea-flower  moulded  by  the  sea, 

Or  simplest  growth  of  meadow-sweet  or  sorrel, 
Such  as  the  summer-sleepy  Dryads  weave. 
Waked  up  by  snow-soft  sudden  rains  at  eve? 

Or  wilt  thou  rather,  as  on  earth  before. 
Half-faded  fiery  blossoms,  pale  with  heat 
And  full  of  bitter  summer,  but  more  sweet 

To  thee  than  gleanings  of  a  northern  shore 
Trod  by  no  tropic  feet? 
o 


210  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

(M^yM^     For  always  thee  the  fervid  languid  glories 
^i>f~     P^^  ^        Allured  of  heavier  suns  in  mightier  skies  ; 


Thine  ears  knew  all  the  wandering  watery  sighs 
Where  the  sea  sobs  round  Lesbian  promontories, 
The  barren  kiss  of  piteous  wave  to  wave 
That  knows  not  where  is  that  Leucadian  grave 
Which  hides  too  deep  the  supreme  head  of  song. 
Ah,  salt  and  sterile  as  her  kisses  were, 
The  wild  sea  winds  her  and  the  green  gulfs  bear 
Hither  and  thither,  and  vex  and  work  her  wrong. 
Blind  gods  that  cannot  spare. 


Ill 

Thou  sawest,  in  thine  old  singing  season,  brother, 

Secrets  and  sorrows  unbeheld  of  us : 

Fierce  loves,  and  lovely  leaf-buds  poisonous. 
Bare  to  thy  subtler  eye,  but  for  none  other 

Blowing  by  night  in  some  unbreathed-in  clime ; 

The  hidden  harvest  of  luxurious  time, 
Sin  without  shape,  and  pleasure  without  speech ; 

And  where  strange  dreams  in  a  tumultuous  sleep 

Make  the  shut  eyes  of  stricken  spirits  weep ; 
And  with  each  face  thou  sawest  the  shadow  on  each, 

Seeing  as  men  sow  men  reap. 


.^^  IV 

^'   O  sleepless  heart  and  sombre  soul  unsleeping, 
.   *\  That  were  athirst  for  sleep  and  no  more  life 

Q  q/^  And  no  more  love,  for  peace  and  no  more  strife! 

^^  Now  the  dim  gods  of  death  have  in  their  keeping 

Spirit  and  body  and  all  the  springs  of  song. 
Is  it  well  now  where  love  can  do  no  wrong. 


SWINBURNE  211 

Where  stingless  pleasure  has  no  foam  or  fang 
Behind  the  unopening  closure  of  her  lips  ? 
Is  it  not  well  where  soul  from  body  slips 

And  flesh  from  bone  divides  without  a  pang 
As  dew  from  flower-bell  drips? 


V       ^ 

It  is  enough ;  the  end  and  the  beginning 
Are  one  thing  to  thee,  who  art  past  the  end. 
O  hand  unclasped  of  unbeholden  friend, 

For  thee  no  fruits  to  pluck,  no  palms  for  winning, 
No  triumph  and  no  labour  and  no  lust. 
Only  dead  yew-leaves  and  a  little  dust. 

O  quiet  eyes  wherein  the  light  saith  nought. 
Whereto  the  day  is  dumb,  nor  any  night 
With  obscure  finger  silences  your  sight, 

Nor  in  your  speech  the  sudden  soul  speaks  thought. 
Sleep,  and  have  sleep  for  light. 


VI 

Now  all  strange  hours  and  all  strange  loves  are  over,  /      jf^c-^*'"^  ,  .  r^ 

Dreams  and  desires  and  sombre  songs  and  sweet,     j  ^^  "•^'^^^ 

Hast  thou  found  place  at  the  great  knees  and  feet       ajl*-*^  „    Ai^^'''^ 
Of  some  pale  Titan- woman  like  a  lover,  *a> 

Such  as  thy  vision  here  solicited,  tA^*'^ 

Under  the  shadow  of  her  fair  vast  head. 
The  deep  division  of  prodigious  breasts. 

The  solemn  slope  of  mighty  limbs  asleep. 

The  weight  of  awful  tresses  that  still  keep 
The  savour  and  shade  of  old-world  pine-forests 

Where  the  wet  hill-winds  weep? 


212  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

VII 

Hast  thou  found  any  likeness  for  thy  vision? 

O  gardener  of  strange  flowers,  what  bud,  what  bloom, 

Hast  thou  found  sown,  what  gathered  in  the  gloom? 
What  of  despair,  of  rapture,  of  derision, 

What  of  life  is  there,  what  of  ill  or  good  ? 

Are  the  fruits  grey  like  dust  or  bright  like  blood? 
Does  the  dim  ground  grow  any  seed  of  ours. 

The  faint  fields  quicken  any  terrene  root, 

In  low  lands  where  the  sun  and  moon  are  mute 
And  all  the  stars  keep  silence  ?    Are  there  flowers 

At  all,  or  any  fruit? 

VIII 

Alas,  but  though  my  flying  song  flies  after, 
O  sweet  strange  elder  singer,  thy  more  fleet 
Singing,  and  footprints  of  thy  fleeter  feet. 

Some  dim  derision  of  mysterious  laughter  ) 

From  the  blind  tongueless  warders  of  the  dead, 
Some  gainless  glimpse  of  Proserpine's  veiled  head, 

Some  little  sound  of  unregarded  tears 
Wept  by  effaced  unprofitable  eyes. 
And  from  pale  mouths  some  cadence  of  dead  sighs, 

These  only,  these  the  hearkening  spirit  hears, 
Sees  only  such  things  rise. 


IX 

Thou  art  far  too  far  for  wings  of  words  to  follow. 
Far  too  far  off  for  thought  or  any  prayer- 
What  ails  us  with  thee,  who  art  wind  and  air? 

What  ails  us  gazing  where  all  seen  is  hollow  ?  a  u.  *i 

Yet  with  some  fancy,  yet  with  some  desire,  ji  ^  joX^  _, 
Dreams  pursue  death  as  winds  a  flying  fire,  1 1    \  ^^^ 


SWINBURNE 


213 


Our  dreams  pursue  our  dead  and  do  not  find.  i 

Still,  and  more  swift  than  they,  the  thin  flame  flies,/ 
The  low  light  fails  us  in  elusive  skies, 

Still  the  foiled  earnest  ear  is  deaf,  and  blind 
Are  still  the  eluded  eyes. 


Not  thee,  O  never  thee,  in  all  time's  changes. 
Not  thee,  but  this  the  sound  of  thy  sad  soul. 
The  shadow  of  thy  swift  spirit,  this  shut  scroll 

I  lay  my  hand  on,  and  not  death  estranges 
My  spirit  from  communion  of  thy  song — 
These  memories  and  these  melodies  that  throng 

Veiled  porches  of  a  Muse  funereal — 
These  I  salute,  these  touch,  these  clasp  and  fold 
As  though  a  hand  were  in  my  hand  to  hold. 

Or  through  mine  ears  a  mourning  musical 
Of  many  mourners  rolled. 


J^ 


•^^ 


XI 


I  among  these,  I  also,  in  such  station 
As  when  the  pyre  was  charred,  and  piled  the  sods, 
And  offering  to  the  dead  made,  and  their  gods. 

The  old  mourners  had,  standing  to  make  libation, 
I  stand,  and  to  the  gods  and  to  the  dead 
Do  reverence  without  prayer  or  praise,  and  shed 

Offering  to  these  unknown,  the  gods  of  gloom. 
And  wKatTSfTiohey  and  spice  my  seedlands  bear, 
And  what  I  may  of  fruits  in  this  chilled  air, 

And  lay,  Orestes-like,  across  the  tomb 
A  curl  of  severed  hair. 


(»JUaa> 


.7,  \^ 


214  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

XII 

But  by  no  hand  nor  any  treason  stricken, 

Not  like  the  low-lying  head  of  Him,  the  King, 

The  flame  that  made  of  Troy  a  ruinous  thing. 
Thou  liest  and  on  this  dust  no  tears  could  quicken 

There  fall  no  tears  like  theirs  that  all  men  hear 

Fall  tear  by  sweet  imperishable  tear 
Down  the  opening  leaves  of  holy  poets'  pages. 

Thee  not  Orestes,  not  Electra  mourns ; 

But  bending  us-ward  with  memorial  urns 
The  most  high  muses  that  fulfil  all  ages 

Weep,  and  our  God's  heart  yearns. 

XIII 

For,  sparing  of  his  sacred  strength,  not  often 
Among  us  darkling  here  the  lord  of  light 
Makes  manifest  his  music  and  his  might 

In  hearts  that  open  and  in  lips  that  soften 
With  the  soft  flame  and  heat  of  songs  that  shine. 
Thy  lips  indeed  he  touched  with  bitter  wine. 

And  nourished  them  indeed  with  bitter  bread  ; 
Yet  surely  from  his  hand  thy  soul's  food  came, 
The  fire  that  scarred  thy  spirit  at  his  flame 

Was  lighted,  and  thine  hungering  heart  he  fed 
Who  feeds  our  hearts  with  fame. 


Therefore  he  too  now  at  thy  soul's  sunsetting,     ir:^  ^i^^^^^i 
God  of  all  suns  and  songs,  he  too  bends  down    tiv*      .    ^  • 
To  mix  his  laurel  with  thy  cypress  crown,  '   ,.*  V^ 

And  save  thy  dust  from  blame  and  from  forgetting. 
Therefore  he  too,  seeing  all  thou  wert  and  art. 
Compassionate,  with  sad  and  sacred  heart. 


SWINBURNE  215 

Mourns  thee  of  many  his  children  the  last  dead, 
And  hallows  with  strange  tears  and  alien  sighs 
Thine  unmelodious  mouth  and  sunless  eyes, 

And  over  thine  irrevocable  head 
Sheds  light  from  the  under  skies. 


XV 

And  one  weeps  with  him  in  the  ways  Lethean, 
And  stains  with  tears  her  changing  bosom  chill ; 
That  obscure  Venus  of  the  hollow  hill. 

That  thing  transformed  which  was  the  Cytherean, 
With  lips  that  lost  their  Grecian  laugh  divine 
Long  since,  and  face  no  more  called  Erycine ; 

A  ghost,  a  bitter  and  luxurious  god. 
Thee  also  with  fair  flesh  and  singing  spell 
Did  she,  a  sad  and  second  prey,  compel 

Into  the  footless  places  once  more  trod. 
And  shadows  hot  from  hell. 


XVI 

And  now  no  sacred  staff  shall  break  in  blossom. 
No  choral  salutation  lure  to  light 
A  spirit  sick  with  perfume  and  sweet  night 

And  love's  tired  eyes  and  hands  and  barren  bosom. 
There  is  no  help  for  these  things ;  none  to  mend. 
And  none  to  mar ;  not  all  our  songs,  O  friend, 

Will  make  death  clear  or  make  life  durable. 
Howbeit  with  rose  and  ivy  and  wild  vine 
And  with  wild  notes  about  this  dust  of  thine 

At  least  I  fill  the  place  where  white  dreams  dwell 
And  wreathe  an  unseen  shrine. 


2l6 


ENGLISH   ELEGIES 


XVII 

Sleep  ;  and  if  life  was  bitter  to  thee,  pardon, 
If  sweet,  give  thanks;  thou  hast  no  more  to  live ; 
And  to  give  thanks  is  good,  and  to  forgive. 

Out  of  the  mystic  and  the  mournful  garden 
Where  all  day  through  thine  hands  in  barren  braid 
Wove  the  sick  flowers  of  secrecy  and  shade, 

Green  buds  of  sorrow  and  sin,  and  remnants  grey. 
Sweet-smelling,  pale  with  poison,  sanguine-hearted, 
Passions  that  sprang   from   sleep  and   thoughts  that 
started. 

Shall  death  not  bring  us  all  as  thee  one  day 
Among  the  days  departed? 


^ 


XVIII 

For  thee,  O  now  a  silent  soul,  my  brother,  j 

Take  at  my  hands  this  garland,  and  farewell.  ' 
Thin  is  the  leaf,  and  chill  the  wintry  smell. 

And  chill  the  solemn  earth,  a  fateful  mother, 
With  sadder  than  the  Niobean  womb. 
And  in  the  hollow  of  her  breasts  a  tomb. 

Content  thee,  howsoe'er,  whose  days  are  done ; 
There  lies  not  any  troublous  thing  before. 
Nor  sight  nor  sound  to  war  against  thee  more, 

For  whom  all  w^inds  are  quiet  as  the  sun, 
All  waters  as  the  shore. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 


cJ 


l£^ 


SHELLEY  217 

ADONAIS 

["  j!4donais :  An  Elegy  07i  the  death  of  John  Keats,  Author  of 
Endytnion,  Hyperion,  etc. 

Awtt'ip  irplv  pi6V  ?Xa|j.ir£s  €vl  Jwoktiv  twos. 

Niiv  8^  6avwv  XdjAireis  ^o-Trepos  €v  <j)0t|i€'vois.     Plato.     1821."] 

I 

I  weep  for  Adonais — he  is  dead ! 
O,  weep  for  Adonais !  though  our  tears 
Thaw  not  the  frost  which  binds  so  dear  a  head ! 
And  thou,  sad  Hour,  selected  from  all  years 
To  mourn  our  loss,  rouse  thy  obscure  compeers, 
And  teach  them  thine  own  sorrow,  say :  with  me 
Died  Adonais ;  till  the  Future  dares 
Forget  the  Past,  his  fate  and  fame  shall  be 
An  echo  and  a  light  unto  eternity ! 

II 

Where  wert  thou  mighty  Mother,  when  he  lay. 
When  thy  son  lay,  pierced  by  the  shaft  that  flies 
In  darkness?    Where  was  lorn  Urania 
When  Adonais  died  ?    With  veiled  eyes, 
'Mid  listening  Echoes,  in  her  Paradise 
She  sate,  while  one,  with  soft  enamoured  breath, 
Rekindled  all  the  fading  melodies, 
With  which,  like  flowers  that  mock  the  corse  beneath, 
He  had  adorned  and  hid  the  coming  bulk  of  death. 

Ill 

O,  weep  for  Adonais — he  is  dead ! 
Wake,  melancholy  Mother,  wake  and  weep! 
Yet  wherefore?    Quench  within  their  burning  bed 
Thy  fiery  tears,  and  let  thy  loud  heart  keep 
Like  his,  a  mute  and  uncomplaining  sleep ; 


2i8  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

For  he  is  gone,  where  all  things  wise  and  fair 
Descend  ;— oh,  dream  not  that  the  amorous  Deep 
Will  yet  restore  him  to  the  vital  air  ; 
Death    feeds    on    his    mute    voice,    and    laughs   at   our 
despair. 

IV 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  again ! 
Lament  anew,  Urania  I — He  died, 
Who  was  the  Sire  of  an  immortal  strain, 
Blind,  old,  and  lonely,  when  his  country's  pride, 
The  priest,  the  slave,  and  the  liberticide, 
Trampled  and  mocked  with  many  a  loathed  rite 
Of  lust  and  blood  ;  he  went,  unterrified, 
Into  the  gulf  of  death ;  but  his  clear  Sprite 
Yet  reigns  o'er  earth ;  the  third  among  the  sons  of  light. 


Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew ! 
Not  all  to  that  bright  station  dared  to  climb ; 
And  happier  they  their  happiness  who  knew, 
Whose  tapers  yet  burn  through  that  night  of  time 
In  which  suns  perished  ;  others  more  sublime, 
Struck  by  the  envious  wrath  of  man  or  God, 
Have  sunk,  extinct  in  their  refulgent  prime ; 
And  some  yet  live,  treading  the  thorny  road. 
Which  leads,   through  toil  and  hate,  to  Fame's  serene 
abode. 

VI 

But  now,  thy  youngest,  dearest  one  has  perished. 
The  nursling  of  thy  widowhood,  who  grew. 
Like  a  pale  flower  by  some  sad  maiden  cherished, 
And  fed  with  true  love  tears,  instead  of  dew ; 
Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew ! 


SHELLEY  219 

Thy  extreme  hope,  the  loveliest  and  the  last, 
The  bloom,  whose  petals  nipt  before  they  blew 
Died  on  the  promise  of  the  fruit,  is  waste ; 
The  broken  lily  lies — the  storm  is  overpast. 


VII 

To  that  high  Capital,  where  kingly  death 
Keeps  his  pale  court  in  beauty  and  decay. 
He  came ;  and  bought,  with  price  of  purest  breath, 
A  grave  among  the  eternal. — Come  away ! 
Haste,  while  the  vault  of  blue  Italian  day 
Is  yet  his  fitting  charnel-roof !  while  still 
He  lies,  as  if  in  dewy  sleep  he  lay ; 
Awake  him  not !  surely  he  takes  his  fill 
Of  deep  and  liquid  rest,  forgetful  of  all  ill. 


VIII 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more ! — 
Within  the  twilight  chamber  spreads  apace 
The  shadow  of  white  Death,  and  at  the  door 
Invisible  Corruption  waits  to  trace 
His  extreme  way  to  her  dim  dwelling-place ; 
The  eternal  Hunger  sits,  but  pity  and  awe 
Soothe  her  pale  rage,  nor  dares  she  to  deface 
So  fair  a  prey,  till  darkness,  and  the  law 
Of  change,  shall  o'er  his  sleep  the  mortal  curtain  draw. 


IX 

O,  weep  for  Adonais  1 — The  quick  Dreams, 

The  passion-winged  Ministers  of  thought. 

Who  were  his  flocks,  whom  near  the  living  streams 

Of  his  young  spirit  he  fed,  and  whom  he  taught 

The  love  which  was  its  music,  wander  not, — 


220  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Wander  no  more,  from  kindling  brain  to  brain, 

But  droop    there,    whence   they  sprung;    and   mourn 

their  lot 
Round  the  cold  heart,  where,  after  their  sweet  pain. 
They  ne'er  will  gather  strength,  or  find  a  home  again. 


And  one  with  trembling  hands  clasps  his  cold  head, 
And  fans  him  with  her  moonlight  wings,  and  cries ; 

"  Our  love,  our  hope,  our  sorrow,  is  not  dead ; 
See,  on  the  silken  fringe  of  his  faint  eyes, 
Like  dew  upon  a  sleeping  flower,  there  lies 
A  tear  some  Dream  has  loosened  from  his  brain." 
Lost  Angel  of  a  ruined  Paradise ! 
She  knew  not  'twas  her  own ;  as  with  no  stain 

She  faded,  like  a  cloud  which  had  outwept  its  rain. 


XI 

One  from  a  lucid  urn  of  starry  dew 
Washed  his  light  limbs  as  if  embalming  them ; 
Another  dipt  her  profuse  locks,  and  threw 
The  wreath  upon  him,  like  an  anadem. 
Which  frozen  tears  instead  of  pearls  begem  ; 
Another  in  her  wilful  grief  would  break 
Her  bow  and  winged  reeds,  as  if  to  stem 
A  greater  loss  with  one  which  was  more  weak ; 
And  dull  the  barbed  fire  against  his  frozen  cheek. 

XII 

Another  Splendour  on  his  mouth  alit. 

That  mouth  whence  it  was  wont  to  draw  the  breath 

Which  gave  it  strength  to  pierce  the  guarded  wit, 

And  pass  into  the  panting  heart  beneath 

With  lightning  and  with  music :  the  damp  death 


SHELLEY  221 

Quenched  its  caress  upon  his  icy  Ups ; 
And,  as  a  dying  meteor  stains  a  wreath 
Of  moonUght  vapour,  which  the  cold  night  clips, 
It  flushed  through  his  pale  limbs,  and  past  to  its  eclipse. 


XIII 

And  others  came  .   .   .    Desires  and  Adorations, 
Winged  Persuasions  and  veiled  Destinies, 
Splendours,  and  Glooms,  and  glimmering  Incarnations 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  and  twilight  Phantasies  ; 
And  Sorrow,  with  her  family  of  Sighs, 
And  Pleasure,  blind  with  tears,  led  by  the  gleam 
Of  her  own  dying  smile  instead  of  eyes. 
Came  in  slow  pomp  ;— the  moving  pomp  might  seem 
Like  pageantry  of  mist  on  an  autumnal  stream. 


XIV 

All  he  had  loved,  and  moulded  into  thought. 
From  shape  and  hue,  and  odour,  and  sweet  sound, 
Lamented  Adonais.     Morning  sought 
Her  eastern  watch-tower,  and  her  hair  unbound. 
Wet  with  the  tears  which  should  adorn  the  ground, 
Dimmed  the  aerial  eyes  that  kindle  day  ; 
Afar  the  melancholy  thunder  moaned. 
Pale  Ocean  in  unquiet  slumber  lay. 
And  the  wild  winds  flew  round,  sobbing  in  their  dismay. 


XV 

Lost  Echo  sits  amid  the  voiceless  mountains. 
And  feeds  her  grief  with  his  remembered  lay. 
And  will  no  more  reply  to  winds  or  fountains. 
Or  amorous  birds  perched  on  the  young  green  spray. 
Or  herdsman's  horn,  or  bell  at  closing  day  ; 


222  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Since  she  can  mimic  not  his  lips,  more  dear 
Than  those  for  whose  disdain  she  pined  away 
Into  a  shadow  of  all  sounds  ; — a  drear 
Murmur,  between  their  songs,  is  all  the  woodmen  hear. 


XVI 

Grief  made  the  young  Spring  wild,  and  she  threw  down 
Her  kindling  buds,  as  if  she  Autumn  were. 
Or  they  dead  leaves  ;  since  her  delight  is  flow^n 
For  whom  should  she  have  waked  the  sullen  year  ? 
To  Phcebus  was  not  Hyacinth  so  dear, 
Nor  to  himself  Narcissus,  as  to  both 
Thou  Adonais  :  wan  they  stand  and  sere 
Amid  the  faint  companions  of  their  youth. 
With  dew  all  turned  to  tears  ;  odour,  to  sighing  ruth. 


XVII 

Thy  spirit's  sister,  the  lorn  nightingale 
Mourns  not  her  mate  with  such  melodious  pain  ; 
Not  so  the  eagle,  who  like  thee  could  scale 
Heaven,  and  could  nourish  in  the  sun's  domain 
Her  mighty  youth  with  morning,  doth  complain, 
Soaring  and  screaming  round  her  empty  nest. 
As  Albion  wails  for  thee :   the  curse  of  Cain 
Light  on  his  head  who  pierced  thy  innocent  breast, 
And  scared  the  angel  soul  that  was  its  earthly  guest ! 


XVIII 

Ah  woe  is  me !    Winter  is  come  and  gone, 

But  grief  returns  with  the  revolving  year  ; 

The  airs  and  streams  renew  their  joyous  tone ; 

The  ants,  the  bees,  the  swallows  reappear ; 

Fresh  leaves  and  flowers  deck  the  dead  Seasons'  bier ; 


SHELLEY  223 

The  amorous  birds  now  pair  in  every  brake, 
And  build  their  mossy  homes  in  field  and  brere  ; 
And  the  green  lizard,  and  the  golden  snake, 
Like  unimprisoned  flames,  out  of  their  trance  awake. 


XIX 

Through  wood  and  stream  and  field  and  hill  and  Ocean 
A  quickening  life  from  the  Earth's  heart  has  burst, 
As  it  has  ever  done,  with  change  and  motion, 
From  the  great  morning  of  the  world  when  first 
God  dawned  on  Chaos  ;   in  its  stream  immersed 
The  lamps  of  Heaven  flash  with  a  softer  light ; 
All  baser  things  pant  with  life's  sacred  thirst ; 
Diffuse  themselves ;   and  spend  in  love's  delight. 
The  beauty  and  the  joy  of  their  renewed  might. 


XX 

The  leprous  corpse  touched  by  this  spirit  tender 
Exhales  itself  in  flowers  of  gentle  breath  ; 
Like  incarnations  of  the  stars,  when  splendour 
Is  changed  to  fragrance,  they  illumine  death 
And  mock  the  merry  worm  that  wakes  beneath  ; 
Nought  we  know,  dies.     Shall  that  alone  which  knows 
Be  as  a  sword  consumed  before  the  sheath 
By  sightless  lightning  ?— th'  intense  atom  glows 
A  moment,  then  is  quenched  in  a  most  cold  repose. 


XXI 

Alas !  that  all  we  loved  of  him  should  be, 
But  for  our  grief,  as  if  it  had  not  been, 
And  grief  itself  be  mortal !    Woe  is  me ! 
Whence  are  we,  and  why  are  we  ?  of  what  scene, 
The  actors  or  spectators  ?    Great  and  mean 


224  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Meet  massed  in  death,  who  lends  what  life  must  borrow. 
As  long  as  skies  are  blue,  and  fields  are  green, 
Evening  must  usher  night,  night  urge  the  morrow. 
Month  follow  month  with  woe,  and  year  wake  year  to 
sorrow. 


XXII 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more  1 
"Wake  thou,"  cried  Misery,  "childless  Mother,  rise 
Out  of  thy  sleep,  and  slake,  in  thy   heart's  core, 
A  wound  more  fierce  than  his  with  tears  and  sighs. 
And  all  the  Dreams  that  watched  Urania's  eyes, 
And  all  the  Echoes  whom  their  sister's  song 
Had  held  in  holy  silence,  cried:  "Arise!" 
Swift  as  a  Thought  by  the  snake  Memory  stung. 
From  her  ambrosial  rest  the  fading  Splendour  sprung. 


XXIII 

She  rose  like  an  autumnal  Night,  that  springs 
Out  of  the  East,  and  follows  wild  and  drear 
The  golden  Day,  which  on  eternal  wings, 
Even  as  a  ghost  abandoning  a  bier, 
Had  left  the  Earth  a  corpse.     Sorrow  and  fear 
So  struck,  so  roused,  so  rapt  Urania ; 
So  saddened  round  her  like  an  atmosphere 
Of  stormy  mist ;  so  swept  her  on  her  way 
Even  to  the  mournful  place  where  Adonais  lay. 

XXIV 

Out  of  her  secret  Paradise  she  sped. 

Through  camps  and  cities  rough  with  stone,  and  steel, 

And  human  hearts,  which  to  her  aery  tread 

Yielding  not,  wounded  the  invisible 

Palms  of  her  tender  feet  where'er  they  fell :  ./' 


SHELLEY  225 

And  barbed  tongues,  and  thoughts  more  sharp  than  they 
Rent  the  soft  Form  they  never  could  repel, 
Whose  sacred  blood,  like  the  young  tears  of  May, 
Paved  with  eternal  flowers  that  undeserving  way. 


XXV 

In  the  death  chamber  for  a  moment  Death 

Shamed  by  the  presence  of  that  living  Might 

Blushed  to  annihilation,  and  the  breath 

Revisited  those  lips,  and  life's  pale  light 

Flashed  through  those  limbs,  so  late  her  dear  delight. 

"  Leave  me  not  wild  and  drear  and  comfortless. 
As  silent  lightning  leaves  the  starless  night  1 
Leave  me  not ! "  cried  Urania :  her  distress 

Roused   Death  :    Death  rose    and    smiled,   and  met  her 
vain  caress. 

XXVI 

"  Stay  yet  awhile  I  speak  to  me  once  again  ; 

Kiss  me,  so  long  but  as  a  kiss  may  live  ; 

And  in  my  heartless  breast  and  burning  brain 

That  word,  that  kiss  shall  all  thoughts  else  survive. 

With  food  of  saddest  memory  kept  alive, 

Now  thou  art  dead,  as  if  it  were  a  part 

Of  thee,  my  Adonais  !     I  would  give 

All  that  I  have  to  be  as  thou  now  art! 
But  I  am  chained  to  Time,  and  cannot  thence  depart ! 

XXVII 

•'  Oh  gentle  child,  beautiful  as  thou  wert, 
Why  didst  thou  leave  the  trodden  paths  of  men 
Too  soon,  and  with  weak  hands  though  mighty  heart 
Dare  the  unpastured  dragon  in  his  den? 
Defenceless  as  thou  wert,  oh  where  was  then 


226  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Wisdom  the  mirrored  shield,  or  scorn  the  spear  ? 
Or  hadst  thou  waited  the  full  cycle,  when 
Thy  spirit  should  have  filled  its  crescent  sphere, 
The  monsters  of  life's  waste  had  fled  from  thee  like  deer. 


XXVIII 

"  The  herded  wolves,  bold  only  to  pursue ; 
The  obscene  ravens,  clamorous  o'er  the  dead ; 
The  vultures  to  the  conqueror's  banner  true. 
Who  feed  where  Desolation  first  has  fed. 
And  whose  wings  rain  contagion  ;  how  they  fled, 
When  like  Apollo,  from  his  golden  bov7, 
The  Pythian  of  the  age  one  arrow  sped 
And  smiled  ! — The  spoilers  tempt  no  second  blow, 

They  fawn  on  the  proud  feet  that  spurn  them  lying  low. 


XXIX 

"The  sun  comes  forth,  and  many  reptiles  spawn; 
He  sets,  and  each  ephemeral  insect  then 
Is  gathered  into  death  without  a  dawn. 
And  the  immortal  stars  awake  again ; 
So  is  it  in  the  world  of  living  men  : 
A  godlike  mind  soars  forth,  in  its  delight 
Making  earth  bare  and  veiling  heaven,  and  when 
It  sinks,  the  swarms  that  dimmed  or  shared  its  light 

Leave  to  its  kindred  lamps  the  spirit's  awful  night." 


XXX 

Thus  ceased  she  :  and  the  mountain  shepherds  came. 
Their  garlands  sere,  their  magic  mantles  rent ; 
The  Pilgrim  of  Eternity,  whose  fame 
Over  his  living  head  like  Heaven  is  bent, 
An  early  but  enduring  monument. 


SHELLEY  227 

Came,  veiling  all  the  lightning  of  his  song 
In  Sorrow  ;   from  her  wilds   lerne  sent 
The  sweetest  lyrist  of  her  saddest  wrong, 
And  love  taught  grief  to  fall  like  music  from  his  tongue. 


XXXI 

'Midst  others  of  less  note,  came  one  frail  Form, 
A  phantom  among  men  ;  companionless 
As  the  last  cloud  of  an  expiring  storm 
Whose  thunder  is  its  knell  ;  he,  as  I  guess, 
Had  gazed  on  Nature's  naked  loveliness, 
Actaeon-like,   and  now  he  fled  astray 
With  feeble  steps  o'er  the  w^orld's  wilderness, 
And  his  own  thoughts,  along  that  rugged  way, 
Pursued,  like  raging  hounds,  their  father  and  their  prey. 


XXXII 

A  pard-like  Spirit  beautiful  and  swift — 
A  Love  in  desolation  masked  ; — a  Power 
Girt  round  with  weakness  ;— it  can  scarce  uplift 
The  weight  of  the  superincumbent  hour  ; 
It  is  a  dying  lamp,  a  falling  shower, 
A  breaking  billow  ;  even  whilst  we  speak 
Is  it  not  broken  ?    On  the  withering  flov/er 
The  killing  sun  smiles  brightly  :   on  a  cheek 
The  life  can  burn  in  blood,  even  while  the  heart  may  break. 


XXXIII 

His  head  was  bound  with  pansies  overblown, 
And  faded  violets,  white,  and  pied,  and  blue  ; 
And  a  light  spear  topped  with  a  cypress  cone. 
Round  whose  rude  shaft  dark  ivy  tresses  grew 
Yet  dripping  with  the  forest's  noonday  dew, 


228  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Vibrated,  as  the  ever-beating  heart 
Shook  the  weak  hand  that  grasped  it ;  of  that  crew 
He  came  the  last,  neglected  and  apart ; 
A  herd-abandoned  deer  struck  by  the  hunter's  dart. 


XXXIV 

All  stood  aloof,  and  at  his  partial  moan 
Smiled  through  their  tears  ;  well  knew  that  gentle  band 
V\/ho  in  another's  fate  now  wept  his  own  ; 
As  in  the  accents  of  an  unknown  land, 
He  sung  new  sorrow ;  sad  Urania  scanned 
The  Stranger's  mien,  and  murmured :  "  Who  art  thou  ?  " 
He  answered  not,  but  with  a  sudden  hand 
Made  bare  his  branded   and  ensanguined  brow. 
Which  was  like  Cain's  or  Christ's -Oh  I  that  it  should 
be  so  ! 

XXXV 

What  softer  voice  is  hushed  over  the  dead? 
Athwart  what  brow  is  that  dark  mantle  thrown? 
What  form  leans  sadly  o'er  the  white  death-bed, 
In  mockery  of  monumental  stone. 
The  heavy  heart  heaving  without  a  moan? 
If  it  be  He,  who  gentlest  of  the  wise. 
Taught,  soothed,  loved,  honoured  the  departed  one; 
Let  me  not  vex,  with  inharmonious  sighs 
The  silence  of  that  heart's  accepted  sacrifice. 


XXXVI 

Our  Adonais  has  drunk  poison— oh ! 
What  deaf  and  viperous  murderer  could  crown 
Life's  early  cup  with  such  a  draught  of  woe  ? 
The  nameless  worm  would  now  itself  disown : 
It  felt,  yet  could  escape  the  magic  tone 


SHELLEY  229 

Whose  prelude  held  all  envy,  hate,  and  v/rong. 
But  what  was  howling  in  one  breast  alone, 
Silent  with  expectation  of  the  song, 
Whose  master's  hand  is  cold,  whose  silver  lyre  unstrung. 


XXXVII 

Live  thou,  whose  infamy  is  not  thy  fame  ! 
Live !  fear  no  heavier  chastisement  from  me, 
Thou  noteless  blot  on  a  remembered  name ! 
But  be  thyself,  and  know  thyself  to  be  I 
And  ever  at  thy  season  be  thou  free 
To  spill  the  venom  when  thy  fangs  o'erflow : 
Remorse  and  Self-contempt  shall  cling  to  thee  ; 
Hot  Shame  shall  burn  upon  thy  secret  brow. 
And  like  a  beaten  hound  tremble  thou  shalt— as  now. 


XXXVIII 

Nor  let  us  weep  that  our  delight  is  fled 
Far  from  these  carrion  kites  that  scream  below ; 
He  wakes  or  sleeps  with  the  enduring  dead  ; 
Thou  canst  not  soar  where  he  is  sitting  now.— 
Dust  to  the  dust!  but  the  pure  spirit  shall  flow 
Back  to  the  burning  fountain  whence  it  came, 
A  portion  of  the  Eternal,  which  must  glow 
Through  time  and  change,  unquenchably  the  same, 
Whilst  thy  cold  embers  choke  the  sordid  hearth  of  shame. 


XXXIX 

Peace,  peace!  he  is  not  dead,  he  doth  not  sleep- 
He  hath  awakened  from  the  dream  of  life— 
'Tis  we,  who  lost  in  stormy  visions,  keep 
With  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife, 
And  in  mad  trance,  strike  with  our  spirit's  knife 


230  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Invulnerable  nothings.  —  We  decay 
Like  corpses  in  a  charnel ;  fear  and  grief 
Convulse  us  and  consume  us  day  by  day, 
And  cold  hopes  swarm  like  worms  within  our  living  clay. 


XL 

He  has  outsoared  the  shadow  of  our  night ; 
Envy  and  calumny  and  hate  and  pain, 
And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  delight. 
Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again  ; 
From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow  stain 
He  is  secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn 
A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  grey  in  vain  ; 
Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased  to  burn. 
With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  unlamented  urn. 


XLI 

He  lives,  he  wakes— 'tis  Death  is  dead,  not  he ; 
Mourn  not  for  Adonais. — Thou  young  Dawn 
Turn  all  thy  dew  to  splendour,  for  from  thee 
The  spirit  thou  lamentest  is  not  gone ; 
Ye  caverns  and  ye  forests,  cease  to  moan  ! 
Cease  ye  faint  flowers  and  fountains,  and  thou  Air 
Which  like  a  mourning  veil  thy  scarf  hadst  thrown 
O'er  the  abandoned  earth,  now  leave  it  bare 
Even  to  the  joyous  stars  which  smile  on  its  despair ! 


XLII 

He  is  made  one  with  Nature :  there  is  heard 

His  voice  in  all  her  music,  from  the  moan 

Of  thunder,  to  the  song  of  night's  sweet  bird ; 

He  is  a  presence  to  be  felt  and  known 

In  darkness  and  in  light,  from  herb  and  stone, 


SHELLEY  231 

Spreading  itself  where'er  that  Power  may  move 
Which  has  withdrawn  his  being  to  its  own  ; 
Which  wields  the  world  with  never  wearied  love, 
Sustains  it  from  beneath,  and  kindles  it  above. 


XLIII 

He  is  a  portion  of  the  loveliness 
Which  once  he  made  more  lovely :  he  doth  bear 
His  part,  while  the  one  Spirit's  plastic  stress 
Sweeps  through  the  dull  dense  world,  compelling  there. 
All  new  successions  to  the  forms  they  wear ; 
Torturing  th'  unwilling  dross  that  checks  its  flight 
To  its  own  likeness,  as  each  mass  may  bear  ; 
And  bursting  in  its  beauty  and  its  might 
From  trees  and  beasts  and  men  into  the  Heaven's  light. 


XLIV 

The  splendours  of  the  firmament  of  time 
May  be  eclipsed,  but  are  extinguished  not ; 
Like  stars  to  their  appointed  height  they  climb 
And  death  is  a  low  mist  which  cannot  blot 
The  brightness  it  may  veil.     When  lofty  thought 
Lifts  a  young  heart  above  its  mortal  lair. 
And  love  and  life  contend  in  it,  for  what 
Shall  be  its  earthly  doom,  the  dead  live  there 
And  move  like  winds  of  light  on  dark  and  stormy  air. 


XLV 

The  inheritors  of  unfulfilled  renown 

Rose  from  their  thrones,  built  beyond  mortal  thought, 

Far  in  the  Unapparent.     Chatterton 

Rose  pale,   his  solemn  agony  had  not 

Yet  faded  from  him  ;  Sidney,  as  he  fought 


232  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

And  as  he  fell  and  as  he  lived  and  loved 
Subhmely  mild,  a  Spirit  without  spot, 
Arose  ;  and  Lucan,  by  his  death  approved  : 
Oblivion  as  they  rose  shrank  like  a  thing  reproved. 


XLVI 

And  many  more,  whose  names  on  Earth  are  dark, 
But  whose  transmitted  effluence  cannot  die 
So  long  as  fire  outlives  the  parent  spark, 
Rose,  robed  in  dazzling  immortality. 
"  Thou  art  become  as  one  of  us,"  they  cry, 
*'  It  was  for  thee  yon  kingless  sphere  has  long 
Swung  blind  in  unascended  majesty, 
Silent,  alone,  amid  an  Heaven  of  Song. 
Assume  thy  winged  throne,  thou  Vesper  of  our  throng  I ' 


XLVII 

Who  mourns  for  Adonais?    Oh  come  forth 
Fond  wretch  !   and  know  thyself  and  him  aright. 
Clasp  with  thy  panting  soul  the  pendulous  Earth; 
As  from  a  centre,  dart  thy  spirit's  light 
Beyond  all  worlds,  until  its  spacious  might 
Satiate  the  void  circumference  :  then  shrink 
Even  to  a  point  within  our  day  and  night ; 
And  keep  thy  heart  light  lest  it  make  thee  sink 
When  hope  has  kindled  hope,  and  lured  thee  to  the  brink. 


XLVI  1 1 

Or  go  to  Rome,  which  is  the  sepulchre, 
O,  not  of  him,  but  of  our  joy  :   'tis  nought 
That  ages,  empires,  and  religions  there 
Lie  buried  in  the  ravage  they  have  wrought ; 
For  such  as  he  can  lend, — they  borrow  not 


SHELLEY  233 

Glory  from  those  who  made  the  world  their  prey  ; 
And  he  is  gathered  to  the  kings  of  thought 
Who  waged  contention  with  their  time's  decay, 
And  of  the  past  are  all  that  cannot  pass  av/ay. 


XLIX 

Go  thou  to  Rome,— at  once  the  Paradise, 
The  grave,  the  city,  and  the  wilderness ; 
And  where  its  wrecks  like  shattered  mountains  rise, 
And  flowering  weeds,  and  fragrant  copses  dress 
The  bones  of  Desolation's  nakedness 
Pass,  till  the  Spirit  of  the  spot  shall  lead 
Thy  footsteps  to  a  slope  of  green  access 
Where,  like  an  infant's  smile,  over  the  dead, 
A  light  of  laughing  flowers  along  the  grass  is  spread. 


And  gray  walls  moulder  round,  on  which  dull  Time 
Feeds,  like  slow  fire  upon  a  hoary  brand ; 
And  one  keen  pyramid  with  wedge  sublime. 
Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who  planned 
This  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand 
Like  flame  transformed  to  marble ;  and  beneath, 
A  field  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  band 
Have  pitched  in  Heaven's  smile  their  camp  of  death 
Welcoming  him  we  lose  with  scarce  extinguished  breath. 


LI 

Here  pause :  these  graves  are  all  too  young  as  yet 
To  have  outgrown  the  sorrow  which  consigned 
Its  charge  to  each ;  and  if  the  seal  is  set. 
Here,  on  one  fountain  of  a  mourning  mind. 
Break  it  not  thou  I  too  surely  shalt  thou  find 

Q 


234  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

Thine  own  well  full,  if  thou  returnest  home, 
Of  tears  and  gall.     From  the  world's  bitter  wind 
Seek  shelter  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb. 
What  Adonais  is,  why  fear  we  to  become  ? 


LII 

The  One  remains,  the  many  change  and  pass ; 
Heaven's  light  forever  shines.  Earth's  shadows  fly  ; 
Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-coloured  glass. 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity, 
Until  Death  tramples  it  to  fragments. — Die, 
If  thou  would'st  be  with  that  which  thou  dost  seek  1 
Follow  where  all  is  fled  ! — Rome's  azure  sky, 
Flowers,  ruins,  statues,  music,  words,  are  weak 
The  glory  they  transfuse  with  fitting  truth  to  speak. 


LIII 

Why  linger,  why  turn  back,  why  shrink,  my  Heart? 
Thy  hopes  are  gone  before  :   from  all  things  here 
They  have  departed  ;  thou  should'st  now  depart! 
A  light  is  past  from  the  revolving  year, 
And  man,  and  woman  ;  and  what  still  is  dear 
Attracts  to  crush,  repels  to  make  thee  wither. 
The  soft  sky  smiles, — the  low  wind  whispers  near; 
'Tis  Adonais  calls  !   oh,  hasten  thither, 
No  more  let  Life  divide  what  Death  can  join  together. 


LIV 

That  Light  whose  smile  kindles  the  Universe, 
That  Beauty  in  which  all  things  work  and  move, 
That  Benediction  which  the  eclipsing  Curse 
Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustaining  Love 
Which  through  the  web  of  being  blindly  wove 


SWINBURNE  235 

By  man  and  beast  and  earth  and  air  and  sea, 
Burns  bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mirrors  of 
The  fire  for  which  all  thirst ;  now  beams  on  me. 
Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mortality. 

LV 

The  breath  whose  might  I  have  invoked  in  song 
Descends  on  me  ;  my  spirit's  bark  is  driven, 
Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trembling  throng 
Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest  given ; 
The  massy  earth  and  sphered  skies  are  riven ! 
I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully,  afar ; 
Whilst  burning  through  the  inmost  veil  of  Heaven, 
The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star, 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  Eternal  are. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley, 
1792-1822. 


IN   TIME  OF  MOURNING 

[Poefus  and  Ballads.     Thh-d  Series.     1 89 1 .  ] 

*  Return,'  we  dare  not  as  we  fain 

Would  cry  from  hearts  that  yearn  : 
Love  dares  not  bid  our  dead  again 
Return. 

O  hearts  that  strain  and  burn 
As  fires  fast  fettered  burn  and  strain ! 
Bow  down,  lie  still,  and  learn. 

The  heart  that  healed  all  hearts  of  pain 

No  funeral  rites  inurn: 
Its  echoes,  while  the  stars  remain, 

Return. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne, 


236  ENGLISH   ELEGIES 

BREAK,    BREAK,    BREAK 

["Poems   by   Alfred    Temiyson.      In    two  volumes.     London, 
Edward  Mo.xon.    1 842."] 

Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy. 
That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 
That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay  ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 
But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still  I 

Break,  break,  break. 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea  ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead, 
Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

Alfred  Lord  Teanyson, 
1809—1892, 


W.    H.    WHITE   AND   CO.    LTD.,    RIVERSIDE    PRESS,    EDINBURGH 


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